InkedCurls

There is something no one warns you about
the quiet shift,
the internal rearranging
that makes no sound
but echoes everywhere.

It doesn’t announce itself.
No grand entrance, no visible proof.
Just a feeling
deep, immense
like something inside you has moved
and forgot to ask permission.

You thought change would arrive
dressed in new things,
in fuller hands,
in proof you could point to.
You thought it would live outside of you
something you could hold,
something you could show.

But instead,
it settled within.

A subtle unraveling
of who you thought you were.
A quiet becoming
of someone you don’t fully recognize.

Was this always you
waiting beneath the surface?
Or someone entirely new,
shaped by unseen moments
and unspoken desires?

You don’t quite know.
And maybe you’re not supposed to.

Because this change
it isn’t for them.
It was never meant to be.

It is yours.
Fully, deeply, entirely yours.

And if others grow alongside you,
if they meet you here,
if they stay

then maybe that’s just
a second kind of miracle.

Something I’ve been working on… I’m not a writer but when my heart thumps I need to let her speak….

She Was Born an Island

My mother was born where the ocean
knows everyone’s name.
Puerto Rico shaped her first breath
salt in her lungs,
sun stitched into her spine,
Spanish lullabies rocking her before sleep.

I was born where buildings touch the sky,
where winter teaches you how to miss warmth,
where my accent learned to code-switch
before I learned how to pray.

But my mother
my mother is the bridge.

She carries the island in her hands
even when they’re tired,
even when they’re working,
even when they’re holding me
between two worlds.

Her voice is a passport.
When she speaks,
the coquí answers from somewhere deep in my chest.
When she cooks,
the kitchen turns into a coastline
sofrito rising like incense,
ancestors pulling up chairs uninvited.

She is not just Puerto Rican.
She is Puerto Rico remembering itself
inside an apartment far from home.

I didn’t learn the island by geography.
I learned it by watching her.
By the way she believes in spirits and signs,
by the way she trusts intuition more than directions,
by the way she knows when something is wrong
before it’s ever said out loud.

She is my spiritual bridge
a woman who crossed water
so I wouldn’t have to drown.

Through her, I touch land
I wasn’t born on
but still recognize as mine.
Through her prayers,
the island finds me
even in New York concrete,
even in English sentences,
even in moments I feel split.

She teaches me that roots don’t disappear
just because they grow elsewhere.
They stretch.
They adapt.
They survive.

My mother stands between past and future,
between island and city,
between what was sacrificed
and what was dreamed.

And when I feel lost
when I wonder where I belong
I remember

I am not far from Puerto Rico.
I am one heartbeat away.
I am her child.
And she is the bridge
that brought the island to me.

September Photo Dump…. I don’t know why I’m doing this when my ass didn’t do s**t this past month 😩. It came grabbed some lunch and went like it didn’t even wanna be bothered 🙄… but I did add more ammo into my meme folder 😃I got screenshots for days 💅🏽😮‍💨😜😂

As the years unfold,
faith grows stronger,
a steady hand
to help me hold on.

It whispers:
keep dreaming,
don’t let go,
remember who you were,
while guiding me
into who I’m becoming.

Tears fall—
sometimes too many,
sometimes without control.
The world grows heavy,
but that’s when faith steps in,
reminding me of the promises
I made to myself.

The future is unknown,
yet I trust it will be kind,
gentle,
a place where the next tears
will be tears of joy.

And so, with hope in my heart
and gratitude in my soul—
Happy Birthday to me. 🥹🥰

Social media,
one endless classroom
where the walls have fallen down.

No grades, no levels, no order—
just everyone crammed together.

The kid with the IEP,
the one chasing Regents,
the dreamer,
the struggler,
the quiet soul with special needs—
all voices echoing
in the same crowded space.

It’s a swirl of lessons,
a storm of noise,
a chorus without harmony.

A place that calls itself community,
but feels like chaos
wearing a mask.

-me

It’s Big Poppas Bday 🥳 God I wanna give him all the kisses 😩😜😘😘😘😘😘😘 and will 😜😜😜😜😜😜

August… you were quick and a bit dull… No girl likes that 😑 but the best month is next so I’ll get over it 🙄… anyways 💅🏽.. on another note NO ONE CAN MESS WITH MY PANCAKES 😌

I have a ton of photos stored in my phone for my souls sake. Its about time i start sharing them to others. My form of love and poetry L.E.S will always be a second home 🥰🇵🇷

Proof of Life….

I love my son till the death of me but being a girl mom hits different…