God in My Skin

I stopped queuing for permission slips.
Stamped myself approved in ink made of starlight.
Turns out the holy water was in my laughter all along,
and the altar?
Honey, it’s my reflection—
spilling over with poise,
with hips that hymn,
with shoulders broad enough to carry whole universes.

I am the show, the encore, the headline act—
applause optional.
Validation? Cute accessory,
but darling, I already sparkle
like galaxies dripping from my collarbone.

The god within me is a trickster and a queen,
a poet and a storm,
and she whispers through my grin:
“Child, walk like eternity stitched your seams,
talk like thunder took speech lessons from you,
laugh like fireflies just learned your name.”

So I strut.
Not to prove—
but to remind.
Because the ultimate power isn’t being chosen,
it’s knowing you are the choice.

And oh, what a dazzling thing it is
to wake up holy in your own skin—

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