Pentacle of Becoming

I fed the dawn with blood, with ache, with offering—

five times the blade hummed against my skin,

whispered truths into my bones,

etched the shape I always was but never wore.

Each wound, a small death. Each scar, a hymn.

My body broke like morning breaks the dark,

shaking, tender, new—

a quiet thing still learning how to shine.

From the ruin of night, I rise, unburied,

softened into something holy.

I wear this skin the way fire wears light,

and when I breathe, the world remembers my name.