Vessel

There is a cathedral
pressed into the shape of a cage.
A wildfire caught
in the soft geometry of skin.
She carries galaxies
beneath her ribs—
constellations of dreams,
bright as new language
and loud as unfinished songs.

But her body—
her body is a garden wall
meant to hold
a thunderstorm.

Every movement
is a compromise.
Every breath
a rationing of wind.

She was born
with the architecture of elsewhere.
Her spirit spins maps
in the dark
and labels them soon.

She is too full
for the frame that holds her.
A feast sealed in glass.
A hymn stitched into silence.
A thousand yeses
trapped beneath the weight
of not today.

The world tells her
to be grateful
for the ground beneath her.
But she was made
to rise.

To bloom beyond
what biology allowed.

She speaks in hunger.
In horizon.
In future tense.

And still—
she folds herself
into hours
that cannot bear
the brilliance.

This is not grief.
It is pressure.

It is the unbearable tension
of too much soul
in not enough body.

A miracle
muffled.

And yet
she goes on
glowing.
Glowing.
Glowing.

Even as the edges bruise.