Lilith in the Garden

They say the Garden was perfect, but she knew better.
Before the naming, she walked the paths as if it were a dream she had already outgrown.
Adam spoke of order, of roles laid stone by stone.

She felt the world tightening around her–paths forming, roles hardening,
a script being written without her consent.

In the evenings, when creation glowed with its last gold,
she stood at the edge where light frayed into shadow.
Not longing, not fearing—simply knowing.

The world was not forbidden; it was unfinished,
waiting for a footstep brave enough to disturb its dust.

When she finally left, the Garden did not close behind her; it exhaled.
A single leaf loosened from its branch and drifted after her,
as if even paradise understood that some stories begin
only when a woman refuses to bow.