To My Sister of the Salt and Flame

"To My Sister of the Salt and Flame"

—from one Sultana to another

You,

with the spine forged in silence

and the smile you learned to wear like armor—

I see you.

Not the version they trained,

not the ghost who serves tea with her grief folded in napkins,

but you:

the woman who raised herself with a trembling hand

and still chose to plant flowers

in soil cracked by disappointment.

They said be soft,

so you became water—

until they drank you dry.

And still you stayed.

Salt-heavy.

Spilling warmth where none was returned.

But listen now, sister:

You are not a ruin.

You are a temple that refused

to be desecrated

even when the prayers stopped

and the gods forgot your name.

Let it break.

Let it all break.

The myth that you were only born to hold,

to heal,

to hush your own fire.

Let your rage write scripture.

Let your loneliness howl back at the moon.

Let your body become the palace

you were never welcomed into.

And if the world calls you bitter—

laugh.

Because only something sweet once believed it could be tasted forever.

Now build.

Not from their blueprints,

but from your breath,

your bruises,

your unapologetic, unyielding truth.

And when you're done—

send this to another Sultana

still sitting quietly

in her burning room,

wondering if she's alone.

Tell her:

You're not.

And you never were. -Saj

Take it. Share it. Tattoo it on your soul. Burn it in a fire. Whatever you need.