The room is your altar.
The music is your pulse.
Your spine is a coil of lightning,
and every breath is a drumbeat only you can hear.
You sway.
The floor hums beneath your feet.
Your hips remember a language older than words,
a secret that once belonged to stages you never forgot.
You spin.
The air catches your laugh.
It curls around the walls, around your ribs,
around the heat that lives in your chest like molten gold.
No one touches you.
No one needs to.
The fire lives entirely in you,
and that is enough.
The Wild Priestess rises.
The Laughing Flame answers.
Shadow and light collide in your muscles,
and your body becomes the conversation:
wild, untamed, sacred.
Every gasp, every shake, every tremor—
is a whisper to the past selves who danced before you,
who held desire like prayer,
and knew it could never be stolen.
And still you dance.
Still you laugh.
Still you burn.
And in this burn, in this freedom,
you are utterly, unbreakably, alive.