At fifteen, she stands like a storm on the brink, Eyes smoldering coals that refuse to blink. The world draws lines—what to be, what to say— But she’s magma beneath, breaking the clay. They see a girl, soft hands, a smile half-formed, But inside, a tempest has gathered and stormed. Her voice, once a whisper, now sharp as flame, Carving her story, unshackled by shame. Rules are iron bars in a sugar-pink cell, She kicks at the walls, refuses to dwell. The fire in her chest, not weakness or sin, But the spark of a world that’s cracking within. Anger—raw, righteous, fierce as the sun, Burns through her bones till the lies come undone. Don’t tell her to smile, to sit or behave— She’s not here to please, she’s here to brave. Her rage is not chaos—it’s clarity's scream, A torch in the dark, the death of a dream That told her to shrink, to stay small and sweet— She’s wildfire now, with lightning for feet. So fear not her fury, but know what it means: A girl on fire will tear at the seams Of a world too scared to let her ignite— She is the revolution. She is the fight.