THE LANGUAGE OF US .
Our bodies are maps,
inked with scars and soft rivers,
each curve a sentence,
each breath a prayer.
Our eyes two lanterns in the dark, burning with secrets we dare not speak aloud
They hold storms, they hold suns,
they are oceans refusing to drown.
The arch on our backs is a bridge, bending beneath the weight of survival, yet rising again,
like crescent moons that never forget their pull toward the sky.
And our fingers oh,
they write histories on skin,
chasing memories across empty rooms, tracing love like fragile veins,
telling stories that lips were too afraid to tell.
Every part of us is a poem rhyme
stitched in bone,
rhythm carved in pulse,
a chorus of metaphors
singing, we are broken, we are whole,
we are endless.
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This poem is so beautiful. It's like a love letter to everyone's unique self.
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.