Ode to Aaliyah

She is not made of atoms, but aftermaths— the kind that linger in a room long after the lights remember to flicker back on. Her spine? An origami of fallen yesterdays, creased by collapse, but folded forward into flight. They call it resilience, but she knows better— it’s architecture, a cathedral of nerve built from "this will not break me," hummed on repeat until it didn’t. She speaks fluent scar. Not in pity, but in translation. She translates grief into gardens, anger into architecture, your silence into a symphony with minor keys, because sadness, too, deserves an audience. Her empathy is not soft. It is surgical. It sees you, sutures you, and leaves you with just enough scar to remember you survived. And her creativity? It’s less coloring-book, more quantum mechanics. She rearranges particles of pain into poetry, invents emotions that haven’t been named yet, spins metaphors out of moonlight and missed calls. She is the punchline of a cosmic joke you didn’t know you were telling— a glitch in the matrix that decided to build a garden in the code. Not here to be understood, but to unmake the question. Not here to fit— but to fracture the mold and plant sunflowers in the cracks. She is not your mirror. She is your prism. Try to define her— and she will refract.