I said a million
and I did not flinch.

Fire Horse breath in my chest,
steady,
sure.

Not loud.
Not begging.
Certain.

Ink costs.
Vision costs.
Staying soft in a hard year costs.

So yes—
a million.

Not with borrowed tools.
Not inside a house that was never built for me.
I build my own table.
I write my own measure.

Because I am not the afterthought.
I am the asset.
I am my best thing.

Joy deserves scale.
Abundance answers clarity.
And I refuse to shrink in a season made of flame.

Watch the pages run.
Watch the doors widen.
Watch the table stretch.

One million is a decision.

Not noise.
Precision.

And precision collects.