MY BODY

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆
𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅. 💐

An unseen moon pulls the tides of my blood,
and I bow, not in weakness,
but in reverence.

Yet the world,
that ever-spinning machine of noise,
calls me strange
for dancing to a rhythm
older than time.

They forgot the sound of sap,
the breath of dawn,
the whisper of the womb
that taught the earth how to bloom.

They ask me to cut my roots
to fit their gardens of glass.

But I am not here to be trimmed.

I am the forest remembering itself,
the tide that knows when to withdraw,
the body that says enough
and means I am listening.

So I rest when the moon wanes,
I create when the fire returns,
and I love myself
as an act of rebellion,
a sacred disobedience
to a world
that forgot how to feel.

I do not rush my inner winter anymore.
I let it snow inside my silence,
and from this quiet ground
new petals always rise.

When light returns in my inner spring, I open,
curious and tender,
a breath reborn in the soil of surrender.
I bloom not to please,
but to remember who I am becoming.

When the fire climbs my spine during my inner summer
I dance with my full voice,
I am life unapologetic,
a storm of softness,
a sun that dares to burn and heal.

And when the leaves within me fall in my inner autumn,
I do not mourn,
I exhale the excess,
I learn the art of letting go.
Decay becomes devotion.