When I reach to fill the void,
my body meets me with a voice—
low, certain, not unkind.
“Not like that,” she says.
“No more covering me.
No more mistaking numbness for peace.
No more pretending to feed what you won’t feel.”
She does not scold.
She does not shame.
She stands in her fire
and waits for my truth.
So now—
when that old ache rises,
I pause.
I listen for her breath.
I place my hand where I once stuffed.
And I ask:
“What do you need, beloved?”
“What do you really want me to taste?”
She answers—
not with food,
but with fire.
To taste the fire
is to let sorrow and ecstasy touch the same tongue.
To let sweetness burn.
To let bitterness bloom.
To stay, even when it stings.
You are the outlaw—
not to break rules,
but because you remember what came before them.
You are the rebel,
because you know
nothing real can be harmed.
So yes—
taste your anger.
Taste your ache.
Taste your joy like it’s illegal and infinite.
Taste your life until it drips down your chin
and you finally whisper:
I am engulfed.
I am transformed.
I am real.
