Sekhmet

She was not made of gentleness.
She was made of sunfire and endings.

They gave her a crown to contain her power,
gold shaped into obedience,
but still the light spilled out of her —
through her eyes,
through her mouth,
through the quiet way she stood
as if the world itself were something
she had already survived once before.

Sekhmet does not ask to be understood.
She is the heat that arrives without permission,
the fever that burns the rot from a body,
the war that comes when silence
has been mistaken for weakness.

But they forget —
she is also the healer.

Not soft healing.
Not gentle hands and whispered comfort.
She heals the way fire heals a forest:
by destroying what cannot be carried any further.

If she enters your life,
something will end.
A lie.
A fear.
A version of you that learned to stay small.

Do not pray to Sekhmet
if you want an easy life.
Pray to her if you want your life back.

She will place the sun in your chest
and dare you
to become someone
who is no longer afraid
of their own power.