The spirit of a wildflower
In the garden of Becoming Herrss, the wildflower is more than a symbol. She is memory, prayer, and proof of every Black woman who bloomed when no one watered her. She grows in places she was never meant to survive, cracks in concrete, soil that forgot her name, and still, she rises. This movement was born from that kind of becoming. From the ache of women who carried too much in silence. From the softness we were told was weakness. From the wisdom that lives in our wounds.
Don't Forget Me, Just Remember Me
Hey you… do you remember me? I’m the little girl beneath the armor the one who held you when no one else did. I was your arms before you ever learned to fly, your voice before you knew you had one. I kept you safe in the silence,
🌑 The Girl That Kissed the Moon 🌑
One night she whispered, “I’m ready to feel,” tired of pretending, tired of the steel. She kissed the moon like a prayer in the dark, and it lit up the sky with the flame in her heart. It didn’t ask her to be polite or be still it welcomed her wounds and honored her will. In that sacred kiss, generations were freed pain unraveling like forgotten seed. Her ancestors wept in the quietest tune, because she did what they couldn’t she kissed the moon.
Are You My Blues?
I want a love like the music spilling from a midnight juke joint, raw, alive, and wrapped in sweat and laughter. A love that moves through my bones like the bass drum calling spirits to dance, the saxophone wailing like the moon singing back to the sky. This love is ancient, a blessing carved from the cosmos itself. It is the blessing God bestowed when He scattered stars and said, “Let there be light,” and I was born into that light, destined to be real. Even the Martians had to make room for our slow dance on red dust under a blue moon, not because we merely deserve it, but because this love is as old as time.