Whispers of fire

Poppys prompt 13

They say she was kissed by a god

but it felt more like being swallowed—

soft at first,

then nothing but heat in the throat

and a voice that wasn't hers anymore.

Prophecy don’t come loud.

It comes like smoke—

threading the cracks in your knowing,

curling inside your chest

until you cough up stars and no one listens.

She saw the end

before the start had dressed itself in names.

Saw the ash clinging

to the hem of her father's robes,

the sea foaming with grief

before ships ever left the harbor.

You’d think knowing would save you.

But knowing’s just

holding the match

while they build the gallows.

She spoke in splinters—

not because she was broken,

but because the truth don’t come whole

when it’s meant to be ignored.

The gods gave her sight

then stitched silence

into the mouths of men.

And still,

she kept naming the storms.

Kept pointing at the sky

even when the thunder

refused to answer.

Some say she was mad.

But madness is just

what they call it

when a woman won’t shut her mouth

about the smoke

before the fire.

And she?

She walked barefoot through the ruin,

palms turned open

to whatever came next—

not fearless,

but finished with asking

to be believed.