She walks between worlds.

She walks between worlds-
canvas and catwalk, altar and avenue-
each stride a spell, each gaze a resurrection.

Brushstrokes echo on her skin,
a gallery of old wounds turned gold-
only feel
when she enters a room
like a thunder-soft storm.

Once draped in silence,
she now wears her voice
like silk-
flowing, fearless,
stitched with the seams of
​becoming.

She is the healer in heels,
the mother of her own rebirth,
cradling her past
like a sacred pose
to the goddess she’s sculpting
each day anew.

She poses-
not to be seen,
but to mirror
what is possible
when a woman
remembers
she is both...

the muse and the masterpiece.