by, Samantha Syrnich TLC
I am not just softness —
I am a wildfire
that chose not to consume.
A force once cornered,
now wrapped in grace.
My hair?
It is not one color —
It is every blond thread of memory
woven by sun, salt, and story.
Champagne light from childhood’s hush,
Wheat-gold from summers I tried to escape,
Honey-streaked with prayers I never spoke aloud.
A living braid of resilience and rebirth.
My reflection is not for show —
It is a map of survival.
Not dotted with freckles,
but marked by the quiet testimony of scars —
each one a monument
to pain that did not win.
I do not shimmer for admiration —
I shimmer on paper,
because this body has been through fire
and still lets me write.
I was not born this way —
I was forged.
In courtrooms that burned me silent,
bound by gags that lasted
before and after
I took my oath to serve.
I was stripped of the right to leave,
the right to speak,
the right to live freely
in the country I still protected.
And in the shadows—
before the badge,
before the uniform—
the threat came:
two hours to surrender my name,
or die by their hand.
A lawyer made it legal.
But I never called it just.
Still—
I served anyway.
And when the pay ended,
I kept serving.
I kept helping others,
kept trying to protect
everyone I could.
Still—
heaven did not forget me.
It handed me ink,
and thunder,
and the long echo of my own voice.
And I began again.
My eyes are oceans
not because they are blue —
but because they hold orcas and storms,
sunrises and shipwrecks,
and the ache of still searching
for home.
I do not seek a human savior —
I seek hands that will help steady me,
eyes that will see the bruises,
and still believe I am worth
a life with peace.
I don’t need to be carried —
I need a chance.
I need someone to believe
that I deserve to build
a home of my own.
They tried to erase me—
but I rose,
a wild blue bloom
no one planted,
refusing to vanish.
I am not asking to be rescued —
I am asking to be recognized.
Seen, not as a wound,
but as a woman
who has carried every storm alone
and still wakes
with room for gentleness.
To walk beside me
is not to walk in peace —
but to walk in purpose.
To match the rhythm
of a soul who has tasted fire
and chose to become
a balm instead.
I am tenderness with a spine.
A poet with a battlefield heart.
A mother of revolutions
disguised in lullabies.
And if I ever stop —
if I ever let you near —
know it is not permission
to possess,
but an invitation
to witness the unbroken
in its most intimate form.
I am not afraid to be seen.
I am afraid to be misread.
So read slowly.
Every line of me
was carved in flame.
🕊️
Artist & Author: Samantha Syrnich TLC
© 2025. All rights reserved.
The Phoenix Quill: Words Born of Fire, Inked in Truth 