RE: THE LANGUAGE OF US .

I felt this poem deeply as I placed myself inside its voice. My body became a map, inked with scars and soft rivers. My eyes burned like lanterns in the dark, holding storms and suns I rarely let escape. My back bent beneath survival yet rose again, a crescent moon reaching upward. With my fingers, I wrote histories across skin, chasing what lingers. Every part of me is its own poem stitched in bone, carved in pulse broken, whole, and endless all at once.