CATHEDRAL FREQUENCY

I tuned myself to a frequency

no one else was broadcasting.

They said speak softer, take less room,

fold your voice into the furniture.

I said no — I said it quietly,

which made it permanent.

I watched them rearrange the table

so my chair would face the wall,

learned the politics of smiling

while they shrank me down the hall.

I built my own cathedral

from every room that wouldn’t hold me,

stacked the silence into columns,

turned the echo into company.

Not revenge — geometry.

I just drew a bigger floor plan

and forgot to leave them keys.

You can hear it if you’re listening—

not the sound, but what it costs

to stand inside your own frequency

when the world prefers you lost.

I am the cathedral,

I am the frequency,

I didn’t wait for permission—

I became the key.

No altar, no confession,

no mercy from the crowd—

I built the thing they prayed in

and I never once knelt down.

They’ll tell you power looks like armor,

something hard you strap across your chest.

It isn’t. It’s the moment

you stop flinching at your own address.

It’s Tuesday morning, no applause,

choosing yourself without a witness,

keeping the volume where you set it

when they ask you to be less.

I stopped apologizing

for the space my lungs require,

stopped dimming every doorway

just to make the room admire.

I let them call it difficult.

I let them call it cold.

The thermostat was always mine—

they just wanted the control.

You can feel it when it’s real—

not the crown, but what it weighed

to keep your spine in full extension

every single day you stayed.

I am the cathedral