The Becoming

Mistress Malisandre was not a mask I put on—
she was the name I gave my becoming.

Every ache, every silence, every time I was called too much, too loud, too dark—she took them and made art.

She is the part of me that remembers how to hold the whip, the pen, and the mirror. She is both punishment and praise.

Becoming her didn’t require losing myself.
It required returning to the self they tried to bury.

I did not rise from ashes.
I was the fire.