@mrs_nobody060: She sat in the hush before meaning, where color has not yet chosen a name. Thread in hand, needle like a wand— not to conjure, but to remember. She stitched a wound into a window, a silence into song. The thread whispered stories no tongue could hold, looping through lotus and longing, petal and pulse. Her body curved like a crescent moon, cradling a galaxy she grew from everything broken. Buttons of chakras glowed down her spine— red for the root she never had, green for the heart that never closed, violet for the voice she’s only now learning to own. She sewed the soul into the skin of the canvas, stitched her sorrow into spirals, her hope into halos, her rage into radiant red. The needle sang: You are not a seam. You are the whole cloth. You are the mender and the torn, the weaver and the thread. Above her, a black moon crowned her brow— the kind that keeps secrets but still shines. And beneath, a garden bloomed from her belly, as if to say: Even this soil, too dark to name, can birth light if you dare. Celeste #poetry #art

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