I rose like the ocean does—
not rushed, not asked—just arrived.
A shimmer in my step,
sunrise kissing my left hip,
waves bowing as I walked past.
Don’t mistake me for humble fog, darling.
I am sunrise in full silhouette,
golden like a goddess late for her own coronation.
Still showed up.
Still slayed.
The ocean said,
“Girl, you glowing.”
I said,
“I know. Been marinating in divine timing and body butter.”
This glow?
Ain’t from Sephora.
It’s Haitian honey, ancestral heat,
and a sprinkle of “you tried me—but I healed anyway.”
I drip like saltwater wisdom
and talk like a tide that knows she’s right.
I’ve got hips like horizon lines
and joy too big to be modest about.
See me gleaming?
That’s not sweat.
That’s legacy liquified.
And a little coconut oil.
I am the reason lighthouses look twice.
The reason seagulls gossip.
The reason Poseidon sends good morning texts.
(He’s blocked now.)
You thought the glow was a phase?
Honey, this is seasoned shimmer.
This is high tide with a halo.
This is golden hour that refuses to end.
I don’t chase the sun.
I am the sun.
In heels.
With boundaries.
And a good laugh.
So next time you see that flash of light on the shore,
just know—
it’s not a lighthouse.
It’s me.
Smiling.
Silhouetted.
And still sacred.
—Ocean don’t play. And neither do I. 🌊✨
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