Kali

They call you destroyer
But I think you are a midwife.

You do not arrive gently.
You arrive with thunder in your lungs
and blood on your hands,
not because you are cruel
but because you are honest.

You do not pretend that endings are painless.
You do not dress transformation in pretty words.
You tear.
You break.
You burn.
And still, somehow,
you are the mother.

I have felt you in the moments
when my life fell apart quietly.
Not in dramatic explosions
but in slow realisations.
In truths I could no longer avoid.
In the mirror.
In the silence.
In the knowing.

You stand there, don’t you?
At the edge of who I was
and who I am becoming,
holding your blade,
waiting for me
to stop begging for the old life back.

Kali does not negotiate with illusions.
She does not care for the version of you
that survives by shrinking.

She only wants the real thing.
The wild thing.
The woman who is no longer afraid
to lose everything
if it means finally being free.

They are afraid of you.
But I think it is because
you are the goddess of truth
and truth
has always looked like destruction
to those who benefit from your silence.

If you come for me, Kali,
do not come softly.
Do not whisper.
Do not give me time to cling
to what is already gone.

Cut it away.
All of it.
Every false story.
Every small life.
Every version of me
that learned to live
without her own power.

If I must be reborn,
let it be bloody.
Let it be honest.
Let it be by your hand.