She Wears Thunder Like Pink Roses and Lipstick
- Hashtag Kalakar
- Sep 19
- 26 min read
By Julie Makhoul
Synopsis:
Let’s follow Jazmine—
a girl who wears thunder like pink roses and lipstick—
as she poetically writes her way through the trials and tribulations of life.
From broken promises to sacred awakenings,
Jazmine’s voice rises through the cracks in her world,
unfolding in verses that shimmer with resilience, rage, and grace.
Her journey is mythic, her truth unflinching.
She is unnamed, but never unseen.
A phoenix in lipstick, a unicorn in combat boots—
Jazmine is every girl who’s ever dared to reclaim her story.
Chapter 1: Evil Is Her
Jazmine hadn’t planned to check his profile. She told herself she wouldn’t. Told herself she didn’t care. But curiosity is a liar, and tonight, it whispered louder than reason.
The photo was recent—posted just hours ago. Marcus stood beside a woman with long honey-blonde waves and a smile that curled like a secret. Emily. The caption read: “Old friends catching up”—harmless, maybe. But the way his arm wrapped around her waist, the way their bodies leaned into each other like gravity had chosen them—it wasn’t harmless. It was intimate. Familiar. Dangerous.
Jazmine’s breath caught. Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. She felt the heat rise in her chest, a slow burn that spread to her throat, her cheeks, her eyes. Rage, jealousy, betrayal—all of it tangled into a single, suffocating knot.
Four years. Four years of loyalty. Of late-night talks and shared dreams. Of holding him through his mother’s illness, of sacrificing her own ambitions to support his. And now this—this reunion with the girl who once shattered him. The girl he used to call “the one that got away.”
She remembered the night he first mentioned Emily. They were lying in bed, limbs tangled, hearts open. He said, “She was wild. Unpredictable. You’re the calm I needed.” At the time, it felt like a compliment. Now, it felt like a sentence. Calm. Steady. Safe. Boring.
Jazmine stared at the photo again. Her fingers clenched the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. She imagined throwing it across the room, watching it shatter like her trust. But she didn’t move. She just sat there, frozen in the storm of her own mind.
Her thoughts spiraled. Was this why he’d been distant lately? The late replies. The distracted eyes. The way he stopped saying I love you first. It all made sense now. Emily had returned, and with her, the version of Marcus that Jazmine feared most—the one who still believed in unfinished stories.
She rose from the couch and walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back, unfamiliar. Her eyes looked darker, sharper. Her lips pressed into a line that used to smile but now only held silence. Something had shifted.
“I was calm,” she whispered. “And he drifted.”
She touched her own cheek, tracing the outline of a woman she no longer recognized. The ache inside her wasn’t just heartbreak—it was transformation. A shedding of softness. A birth of something raw.
“If calm didn’t keep him,” she said, voice low and steady, “maybe chaos will.”
And in that moment, Jazmine didn’t just feel the rage—she became it. Not a victim. Not a lover scorned. But something else. Something ancient. Something dangerous.
Evil wasn’t around her.
Evil was her.
Jazmine went to the store. It was late, but they were still open. She walked straight to the hair dye aisle—no hesitation. Pink. Purple. Blue. Her favorite colors. She grabbed them all, along with two boxes of bleach.
She was sick of being calm. Sick of being quiet. She wanted out. She wanted free.
Back home, the bathroom sink became a canvas of rebellion. A rainbow of colors spilled across porcelain and tile. Her hair—once tame, once forgettable—was now a riot of pink, purple, and blue. She loved every strand of it.
Marcus would hate it.
She smiled at her reflection, a twisted kind of joy blooming in her chest. This wasn’t for him. This was for her.
She sat down at her desk in the kitchen, the air still thick with the scent of dye and defiance. She opened her notebook and began to write:
Evil Is Her
Every day I sit in wonder.
Violent thoughts racing in my mind.
I hear madness and thunder.
Longness lingers through sands of time.
Mind fills with anger and rage
Everything goes dark and black
Again, I scroll down the page,
Never wanting to turn back.
Ignorant of reason and thought
Greenly I gear up and face my mind.
I fear consequences of being caught;
Though vengeance causes me to be blind.
Limited to my thoughts and feelings,
A brightness shines within
Memories of my past dealings.
Everything has started again.
Yesterday is done and gone.
Untimely hatred binds.
Craziness, life and love go on.
Knowing, soon her demise.
She stared at the final line. Knowing, soon her demise.
Was it Emily’s?
Was it her own?
She didn’t know yet. But something had awakened. And it wasn’t going back to sleep.
Jazmine stood, her rainbow hair catching the dim kitchen light like a crown of rebellion. She snapped a photo—no filters, no soft edges. Just her, raw and radiant. Her eyes burned with truth. Her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
She opened her social media app, uploaded the photo, and attached the poem. No caption. Just the title: Evil Is Her.
Then, in bold letters, she typed:
MARCUS, WE R DONE.
She hit post.
The screen went dark.
Her heart didn’t.
Chapter 2: Valentine
Jazmine stood in front of the mirror, tracing the outline of her jaw with her fingers. Her hair—a radiant swirl of pink, purple, and blue—cascaded over her shoulders like a nebula in motion. It wasn’t just dyed. It was a declaration. A resurrection. A reminder that she had survived.
She tilted her head, studying herself. Not just the surface. The soul beneath.
She was back.
Not the version Marcus had molded. Not the woman who shrank to fit someone else’s story. Not the ghost of addiction. But the real Jazmine: bold, bruised, and blooming.
She pulled out her journal and began a new page. At the top, she wrote:
Who I Am (Again)
Name: Jazmine Rose Carter
Age: 40
Birthday: January 17 (Capricorn sun, Scorpio moon)
Height: 5'6"
Eyes: Hazel with flecks of gold
Hair: Pink, purple, and blue—like a cosmic sunrise
Style: Boho-grunge meets sacred feminine—lace dresses with combat boots, oversized sweaters, silver rings on every finger, and a rose quartz pendant always near my heart
Favorite Color: Dusty rose
Talents: Poetry, singing, sketching faces from memory, making magic out of chaos
Flaws: Overthinks everything. Forgives too easily. Holds grudges in silence.
Dreams: To publish a poetry collection. To sing on a stage without shaking. To feel safe in my own skin.
Fears: Abandonment. Losing my voice. Becoming invisible.
Tattoo: A small phoenix on left wrist—my father’s idea, my design.
Piercings: Nose ring, three in each ear
Signature scent: Vanilla, sandalwood, and something smoky
Favorite flower: Pink rose
Coffee order: Black, no sugar. I like the bitterness—it feels honest.
Children: Three. My two oldest live with their father. My youngest—given up for adoption during the darkest days of my addiction. I love them all. Fiercely. Quietly. Always.
She paused, tapping the pen against her lip.
There was more. So much more. But this was enough for now.
She slipped on her leather jacket—worn, cracked, and perfect—and stepped outside. The air was crisp, the sky pale blue. Couples passed her on the sidewalk, clutching flowers and chocolates. She didn’t envy them.
She had herself.
Later that night, curled up in the oversized desk chair at her desk, she lit a candle and stared at the flame. Her father’s photo sat on the shelf above her desk. He had called her Valentine every year, even when she was too young to understand what it meant.
She hadn’t written about him. Not really. The grief had been too sharp, too sacred. But tonight, something inside her stirred. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way her heart still ached in places she couldn’t name.
She opened her journal again and wrote:
Valentine
Velvety, soft
Appellations of my heart,
Long for
Eternal salvation.
Never more to feel the
Tightening of our
Intervention.
Never more,
Eternally.
She closed the journal and whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dad.”
And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone.
Chapter 3: Seashells and Shadows
Jazmine didn’t sleep that night.
She walked the shoreline in her mind, tracing memories like footprints in wet sand.
The ache was quieter now, but no less deep.
She remembered the poem she wrote the night he died.
It came to her like a tide—unexpected, insistent, full of salt and sorrow.
She hadn’t shared it with anyone.
But tonight, it felt like the only truth she could offer.
Seashells and Shadows
Upon the lonely midnight sand,
A woman walks with memories in hand-
Wind weaving sorrow through her hair,
Bare feet tracing loss beyond repair.
The moon, a pale and ghostly sprite,
Swings her lantern through the night,
While waves recite a mournful tune,
Whispered by the restless moon.
She stoops to gather seashell bones-
Tiny keepsakes, salty stones-
Each one holding in its shell
A silent story she can't tell.
Her shadow dances, long and thin,
Fluttering like old violin,
While distant laughter-echo-thin-
Floats on breezes whispering him.
She speaks aloud, "O waves, O sky,
Where has my laughing lover gone? Why?"
A crab in boots, with clattery grace,
Offers her comfort in a sideways embrace.
"Grief," says Crab, "is a tide, you see,
Sometimes near, sometimes far as can be.
But in each shell and salty tear,
A bit of your lover lingers near."
So, she walks on-gentle, slow-
Shadow soft from starlit glow.
And though her heart is dashed and torn,
The morning brings the light-reborn.
When the last line echoed in her chest, she closed her eyes.
She imagined the crab in boots, the sideways embrace.
She imagined the tide pulling grief gently back to sea.
And somewhere in the hush between waves,
she let herself believe that morning would come.
June 5th: Salt and Silence
The morning came, as promised.
Soft light spilled through the blinds, painting the walls in pale gold.
Jazmine lay still, listening to the hum of the world waking up.
No tears.
No dramatic release.
Just the quiet ache of survival.
She made coffee.
She fed the dog.
She folded laundry with hands that remembered how to move.
The poem still lingered in her mind—
Crab’s words echoing like a mantra:
“Grief is a tide, you see…”
She didn’t speak of him.
But she wore his hoodie.
She hummed the song he used to play on repeat.
And when she passed the photo tucked in her drawer—
the one of a baby boy with eyes like his—
she paused.
She had given him up.
Not out of abandonment,
but out of love too complicated for the world to understand.
Two years since his father died.
And still, the ache of both losses braided through her ribs.
She whispered,
“I hope someone told you he was funny.
I hope someone tells you he loved you.”
And then she moved through the day,
carrying the silence like a seashell—
hollow, beautiful, and full of echoes.
Chapter 4: The Silver Scar
The night of June 5th didn’t end gently.
Jazmine fell asleep with the sound of waves still echoing in her ears.
But the tide in her dreams was darker.
She saw her baby boy—
his face blurred by smoke,
his cries muffled by the hiss of a pipe.
She saw his father,
laughing and then vanishing,
his shadow swallowed by a silver flame.
The dream twisted—
meth crystals falling like snow,
a nursery full of ash,
a lullaby sung in reverse.
She woke gasping.
Sweat clung to her skin like guilt.
The room was silent, but her heart was screaming.
She didn’t reach for comfort.
She reached for her pen.
At her desk, under the dim light of a flickering lamp,
she wrote the only thing she could.
The Silver Scar
A silver line, a whispered fight,
Seven years gone, a fading light.
A mother's love, a fractured vow,
A crystal shard, a broken bough.
The pipe's smoke, a map of pain
A life surrendered, sun and rain.
Meth's cold hand, a shadowed grip,
A stolen smile, a whispered slip.
Yet in the scar a strength remains
A mother's heart,
Through storms and strains.
A whispered hope,
A fragile plea,
Forgiveness sought,
Eternally.
When she finished, she didn’t cry.
She just stared at the page,
as if the words might bleed.
And somewhere in the silence,
she whispered,
“I’m still here.”
Chapter 5: I’m Still a Mother
The house was too clean.
Jazmine hadn’t noticed it before.
Not like this.
The silence had a shape now—
it filled corners, stretched across countertops,
settled into the spaces where life used to live.
She walked from room to room,
touching surfaces that once held fingerprints,
toys, drawings, crumbs, chaos.
It was sterile.
It was quiet.
It was wrong.
She sat at her desk,
opened her notebook,
and wrote what the silence refused to say.
I’m Still a Mother
Where once the pitter-patter of little feet, Lays a dead, deafening silence.
Where once sticky handprints, Bear clean walls.
Where once a fridge of drawings, A clear, metal slate.
Where once hugs, Now empty arms.
Where once kisses, Now lonely lips.
Where once happy laughter, Now salty tears.
Where once bedtime stories, Now empty, quiet nights.
Where once playful chaos, Now lifeless order.
Where once piles of laundry, Now empty baskets.
Where once backpacks and shoes, Now a clear doorway.
Where once dirty dishes, Now pristine countertops.
You can take them from my home,
But you'll never remove them from my heart.
I carried them inside of me, I birthed them.
No matter how you try, you can't change that
You can terminate my rights,
But you'll never remove my title.
I am still a mother... Their mother!
When she finished, she pressed her palm to the page.
As if to say:
This is mine. This is real. This is truth.
She stared at the poem, her hand still resting on the page.
The words were true.
But truth didn’t bring them back.
She longed to see her children.
To hold them.
To kiss their little cheeks and hear their laughter echo through the halls again.
It had been too long.
She was clean now.
Months of meetings, therapy, journals filled with ink and tears.
She had clawed her way back from the edge.
And still—
their father kept them from her.
Why?
She had asked.
Begged.
Written letters that were never answered.
She understood the fear.
She understood the anger.
But she didn’t understand the silence.
Didn’t he see her now?
Didn’t he see the woman who had survived?
She whispered into the empty room,
“I’m not asking for everything.
Just a moment.
Just a chance.”
But the silence answered back.
Chapter 6: In Love that Never Dies
She stepped outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the porch.
The mailbox creaked as she opened it.
Bills. Flyers.
And then—
an envelope.
Her name, handwritten.
No return address, but she knew.
The envelope was thin, but it carried the weight of a thousand memories.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Inside was a single photo.
School portrait.
Third grade.
He was growing fast—his cheeks less round, his eyes more knowing.
He looked so much like his father now.
She traced his face with her fingertip, as if touch could bridge the distance.
No note. Just the photo.
She set it gently on her desk, propped against a jar of pens.
A sacred relic.
Then she reached for her notebook.
The words came like breath, like prayer, like ache.
She began to write:
In Love that Never Dies
In a garden bloomed a rose, under the sunlit sky,
Feathers fell as tears did dry, history's silent cry.
Petals hold the memory, in shades of deepest trust,
Beating wings soar through the hush, stirring ancient dust.
She has my joy, she holds him tight, under her wings so grand,
Yet here I stand, with aching heart, the scar upon my womb so grand.
Time may heal the wounds we see, but some are felt in soul,
Across the skies, phoenix cry, love's toll takes its toll.
Through the storm and over clouds, where only spirits dare,
Silent whispers echo loud, love's fragmented prayer.
Each beat a pulse of days gone by, each feather a soft goodbye,
Love's weight carried ever high, beneath the vast, endless sky.
She has my joy, she holds him tight, in her embrace so wide,
Yet here I stand, with aching heart, the mark where love was planned.
Dreams of days when pain subsides, and shadows merge with light,
Where love's true form no longer hides, and hearts take flight.
Soar above, oh broken heart, find peace in azure skies,
She has my son, I bear the scar, in love that never dies.
Chapter 7: Born from a Comet’s Prayer
The weekend felt like a miracle.
After years of distance and court orders and aching silence, Jazmine was finally allowed to see her older two children again. Just for the weekend. Just a trial visit. But it was something.
Her twelve-year-old daughter, Amara, arrived with a backpack full of sketchpads and questions. Her ten-year-old son, Eli, brought his favorite hoodie and a guarded smile.
Jazmine had cleaned the apartment twice over, stocked the fridge with their favorite snacks, and laid out fresh sheets with lavender tucked into the corners.
By Saturday afternoon, the living room was scattered with crayons, laughter, and half-eaten bowls of popcorn.
Amara wandered into Jazmine’s bedroom while looking for a charger.
She returned holding a worn, spiral-bound notebook with faded stars on the cover.
“Mom?” she asked, tilting her head. “What’s this?”
Jazmine turned from the stove, her heart catching at the sight of it.
“That,” she said softly, “is a piece of who I used to be. I’ll share it with you tonight.”
Amara nodded, intrigued, and tucked the notebook under her arm like treasure.
That night, after Eli had fallen asleep on the couch and the moon hung low in the sky, Jazmine lit a candle and sat beside Amara on the bed.
She opened the notebook to a page filled with swirling ink and stardust dreams.
Then, she began to read:
Born from a Comet’s Prayer
There's a flutter in me made of butterfly wings—
it hums when the stars lean close.
I sip moonlight from chipped teacups,
trade secrets with unicorns who forget they're not gods.
Every time I walk barefoot through clover,
Mother Earth remembers my name.
They say I was born from an exploding nova
that formed ice draped in pink and lavender skies and lullabies.
They say I was born from a comet's prayer,
draped in teal skies and lullabies,
my laugh stitched with stardust,
my sorrow tucked in a bottle to be thrown back to the sea
And although I've never seen my reflection clearly
the fairies say I carry the shape of dawn
and the eyes of someone who's danced with a storm
and lived to tell it gently.
My mother told me mermaids taught me how to sing,
goats gave me ambition,
and my father—my father taught me to dance in the galaxies.
So, if you ever find yourself lost between raindrops and radio static,
listen for the echo of a girl who sips from chipped teacups,
sings with mermaids,
and dances in galaxies taught by her father's footsteps.
She'll remind you—magic isn't something you find.
It's something you remember.
Amara sat in silence, eyes wide, heart open.
“Did you really write that?” she whispered.
Jazmine smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face.
“I did. A long time ago. But I think I wrote it for you.”
Amara leaned closer, her voice hushed but urgent.
“Do unicorns really think they’re gods?”
Jazmine chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling.
“Only the ones with glitter in their manes. The others are just dramatic.”
Amara grinned. “Do you really drink from chipped teacups?”
Jazmine nodded. “Always. They remind me that broken things can still hold beauty.”
Amara’s smile faded into something softer. “Did mermaids really teach you to sing?”
Jazmine paused, then said, “They did. But not with words. They taught me how to sing with my heart—even when it was underwater.”
Amara looked down at the notebook, tracing the edge of the page with her finger.
“I think I want to be born from a comet’s prayer too.”
Jazmine wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and whispered,
“You already were.”
Amara hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the notebook like it might vanish.
“Mommy? Can I read more of your notebook?”
Jazmine smiled, smoothing a curl from Amara’s forehead.
“You can. But only if you promise to dream with it.”
Amara nodded solemnly, curling into the blanket as Jazmine tucked the notebook beside her like a sacred relic.
The pages fluttered slightly in the breeze from the open window, whispering secrets only the stars could hear.
Within minutes, Amara’s breath slowed, her lashes resting like feathers on her cheeks.
The notebook lay open beside her, glowing faintly in the moonlight—its words seeping into her dreams like lullabies written in stardust.
Jazmine watched her daughter sleep, then whispered to the night,
“She’s already becoming.”
Chapter 8: Set My Heart Afire
It had been a long time since Jazmine let herself imagine love.
Not survival.
Not obligation.
Not the kind of touch that left bruises on her spirit.
But love—real, reckless, radiant.
She had met someone recently.
Nothing serious.
Just a conversation that lingered longer than expected.
A glance that warmed her skin.
A laugh that made her feel seen.
She didn’t know if it would become anything.
But that night, curled beneath her blanket with the moonlight spilling across her bed,
she let herself want.
She opened her notebook and wrote with trembling hands,
not from fear, but from hope.
Set My Heart Afire
I want to know how romantic you can be.
I want to know if your romance would touch me.
I want to feel your passion in the night.
I want to feel you caress me tight.
This is my dream - this is my desire.
Only you could set my heart afire.
Fiery passion in the night.
Hearts on wings, and souls take flight.
Sweaty bodies intertwine.
I want you; you're all mine.
This is my dream - this is my desire.
Only you could set my heart afire.
I want to know your every thought,
To hear the dreams your mind has caught.
I want to run my fingers through your hair.
I want yours to touch me, if you dare.
This is my dream - this is my desire.
Only you could set my heart afire.
Here we are Tossing and turning.
Our two bodies Yearning and yearning.
We move as one, bodies confessing.
We end up Kissing and caressing.
This is my dream - this is my desire.
Only you could set my heart afire.
I want to awake to your smiling face.
Can you handle it at this pace?
I want to spend my every moment with you.
I would do anything, anything to be with you.
This is my dream - this is my desire.
Only you could set my heart afire.
I want you to know just how I feel.
I want you to know this is real.
I love you so; I'll never let you go.
If you feel the same, let me know.
This is my dream - this is my desire.
Only you could set my heart afire.
When she finished, she stared at the final line.
Only you could set my heart afire.
She didn’t know who “you” was yet.
But she knew she was ready.
Jazmine closed her notebook gently, as if sealing a spell.
She didn’t reread the poem.
She didn’t need to.
Every word still burned on her skin.
This wasn’t for anyone else.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
It was hers—
a secret flame,
a whispered ache,
a dream she dared to name.
She tucked the notebook beneath her pillow,
and as she drifted to sleep,
she imagined a world where love didn’t hurt,
where passion didn’t leave scars,
where someone might one day read those words
and feel them in their bones.
But for now,
she kept it close.
Because some fires are meant to glow quietly
until the right soul comes along
to fan them into flame.
Chapter 9: Offering More
Jazmine had spent years hiding pieces of herself.
She’d been told she was too much—
too emotional,
too intense,
too hungry for connection.
But now?
She was done shrinking.
She had more to give than anyone ever bothered to see.
Not just a pretty face.
Not just a fleeting thrill.
She was the whole recipe—
sweetness, spice, and soul.
So, she wrote again, this time with a smile tugging at her lips.
Not a secret ache, but a bold invitation.
Offering More
I got more than you can see,
not just a snack but the whole recipe.
Offering more than just a glance.
let's start a romance.
We'll ignite a spark, set the night on fire,
fuel the flames with our hearts' desire.
Stealing a kiss beneath the moon's soft glow,
where time stands still and love begins to flow.
A soft embrace,
your lips I love to taste.
In the silence, our hearts start to race,
lost in a moment we can't replace.
Every touch, a sweet tease,
pulling me closer, a desire to please.
Every moment, I want you more,
a feeling I can't ignore.
I wonder if you feel the same,
caught in this mutual love flame.
She didn’t send it.
Not yet.
But she left it open on her desk,
like a door waiting to be walked through.
This wasn’t just a poem.
It was a promise.
She was ready to be seen.
To be chosen.
To be loved for everything she was.
And if someone dared to meet her there—
in the fire, in the sweetness, in the storm—
they’d find more than they ever imagined.
Chapter 10: Jazmine’s Anthem
There comes a moment when a woman stops apologizing for her brilliance.
Jazmine had reached that moment.
She had written poems of longing, of pain, of hope.
She had bled ink, whispered dreams, and dared to desire.
But now?
She was writing her name in fire.
This wasn’t just a poem.
It was her anthem.
Her truth.
Her roar.
She picked up her pen, and the universe leaned in to listen.
Jazmine’s Anthem
Jazmine with the pen, spilling ink, flood the page
Mother of creation, every word's a rib cage
Capricorn climbing, summit in my sights
Quintessential spirit, I ignite the night
Resilient like bamboo bending in a storm
Every stanza, a rebirth, another form
A poet, a singer, I sculpt sound and verse
An artist with a palette, the universe immersed
Jazmine’s the name, I wear it like a crown
Author of my life, no one writes me down
Resilient and rising, like the phoenix in flame
Quintessential queen, Jazmine's the name
I'm a lover, heart beats louder than a drum
Every lyric a child, from my soul they come
Strings of my guitar hum stories untold
Notes like whispers, they shimmer, they're bold
Mother of melody, cradle it tight
Lullabies of the stars in the velvet night
Sculpting time with rhythm, I make it mine
A Capricorn climbing, steady, I align
Jazmine, the alchemist, turning life into art
Every piece a fragment, every fragment a part
Words weave the cosmos, verses paint the skies
From my mind to the mic, watch my spirit rise
When she finished, Jazmine didn’t cry.
She didn’t tremble.
She smiled.
This was the chapter she’d been building toward—
the one where she didn’t just survive,
she shined.
She read the final line aloud, voice steady, heart full:
From my mind to the mic, watch my spirit rise.
And somewhere deep inside,
she knew she already had.
Chapter 11: The Mosaic of Jazmine
Jazmine had written her anthem.
Now she was ready to see herself whole.
Not just the fire.
Not just the ache.
But every facet—every shimmer, every scar, every sacred contradiction.
She wasn’t a single story.
She was a mosaic.
Each piece—poet, mother, lover, dreamer—fit together in divine design.
She didn’t need to be perfect.
She only needed to be true.
So, she wrote this not as a poem,
but as a mirror.
The Mosaic of Jazmine
In skies of velvet, under lightning's kiss,
Stands Jazmine -quintessential flame and tenderness in bliss.
Capricorn bones carved from ancient stone,
She sings in quartz tones that echo the unknown.
Poet of wounds turned radiant light,
Artist of altars that bloom through night.
Musician of thunder, singer of stars,
She weaves soft spells through healing scars.
Mother of unicorns, flame-born and true,
And Phoenix rising in shimmering hue.
Lover of lore, author of dreams,
Bearer of spirals and moonlit beams.
Songwriter of grace, heart wide and raw,
She moves like stardust wrapped in awe.
Jazmine-resilient, imperfect, sacred, whole,
A firebird etched in a thunderous scroll.
When she read it back, Jazmine didn’t flinch.
She saw herself—
the thunder, the tenderness, the flame, the flight.
She saw the unicorns she mothered,
the altars she built from brokenness,
the songs she sang to the stars.
And she whispered,
I am all of this.
Not too much.
Not too little.
Just right.
A mosaic.
A miracle.
Jazmine.
Chapter 12: Our Son
The envelope was thicker this time.
Jazmine recognized the school district stamp,
but what made her hands tremble
was the return address.
She opened it slowly,
as if the paper might dissolve in her fingers.
Inside was a photo—
her son, now in fifth grade.
His smile was familiar.
His eyes were hers.
And beneath the photo,
a letter.
The adoptive mother had written with warmth and honesty.
She said he asked about Jazmine often.
That he missed her.
That he loved her.
Jazmine pressed the photo to her chest.
She didn’t cry.
She breathed.
Then she picked up her pen
and wrote the only thing she could.
Our Son
Our love is bound together
By a single child, a little boy.
With love filled tears I let go of my little boy,
And place him in your loving arms & in your heart.
When the world goes to sleep at night
And the moon brightens the blackened sky,
Put him to bed, safe and secure.
Kiss him goodnight and say, "mommy loves you".
Say this from me and say this from you.
Mother to mother our love is one
Bound together by our single son.
She didn’t add a note.
She didn’t explain.
She folded the poem carefully,
placed it in an envelope,
and wrote the return address in soft ink.
It was enough.
Her words would carry what her arms could not.
Her love would travel through the lines,
through the spaces between them,
and find its way to him.
Because some poems aren’t just written.
They’re sent.
Chapter 13: The Sea Goat’s Benediction
It was another weekend together.
Jazmine had learned not to expect too much—
just laughter in small doses,
questions asked cautiously,
and hugs that lingered a little longer each time.
Her son, Eli, was quieter than Amara.
He watched her more than he spoke.
But on Saturday afternoon, while she was sketching by the window,
he sat beside her and asked,
“Mom… what’s a Capricorn?”
Jazmine smiled, surprised.
“Why do you ask?”
“You said I’m one,” he shrugged. “But I don’t know what that means.”
She looked at him—his thoughtful eyes, his steady presence.
Then she opened her notebook and began to write.
When she finished, she handed it to him without a word.
He read slowly, lips moving with each line.
The Sea Goat’s Benediction
She rises from tide with sunset hair,
Pink roses blooming in salt-laced air-
Curved horns crowned in blossom and leaf,
A soul both ancient and bold beneath.
A shimmering tail of blue-green flame,
Etched with the stars that spell her name.
She sits where ocean kisses the sky,
Between the roots of earth and why.
Capricorn, keeper of sacred climb,
Who weaves resilience into time-
She bears the weight with quiet grace,
And flowers bloom from every trace.
She is winter's fire, summer's crown,
The steady force that won't back down-
She dreams in spirals, speaks in tides,
Where destiny and spirit coincide.
So, call her grounded, call her wild,
Call her mother, poet, mystic child.
Where myth meets sea and truth begins,
The rose-born Capricorn softly wins.
When he reached the final line, he looked up.
“Is this me?” he asked.
Jazmine nodded.
“It’s you. It’s me. It’s all of us who carry the climb.”
He didn’t say anything for a while.
Just sat there, holding the page like it was something sacred.
Then he whispered,
“I think I like being a Capricorn.”
That night, Jazmine tucked the poem into his backpack.
Not to keep—just to carry.
Because some truths aren’t taught.
They’re remembered.
And in that moment,
her son remembered who he was—
and who she had always been.
Chapter 14: No Wrinkle in Time
It started with a box.
Jazmine had been cleaning out the hall closet, searching for old journals to use in her next collage. Instead, she found a dusty shoebox labeled Senior Year. Inside: photos, ticket stubs, a dried corsage, and one glossy portrait.
She stared at it for a long time.
Same eyes. Same skin. Same face.
She walked to the mirror, held the photo beside her reflection.
No difference.
Not less difference—none.
She whispered aloud, “I should look older.”
But she didn’t.
Not at 46. Not after three kids. Not after heartbreak, surgeries, and sleepless years.
She sat down and wrote.
No Wrinkle in Time
Time hates me, and age defies me
A clock that ticks but never claims.
I look in the mirror and I see me, I see her, from before, long ago.
The girl with stardust in her lashes,
Still waiting for the years to show.
The soul has aged but the face is timeless-
A portrait framed in borrowed grace.
Each wrinkle earned, yet none appear,
As if time forgot to touch this face.
No vampire bite, no thirst for blood,
The pulse and heartbeat still stay.
No curse, no spell, no ancient pact-
Just breath that rises day by day.
My age evades; she's not one of us.
The younger pursue me, drawn and blind.
They see the shell, not the centuries-
I carry in my mind.
Stress free, don't smoke, wear sunscreen, stay youthful
They chant it like a sacred creed.
I defied all that.
Why am I not Grey and wrinkled, like I should be?
"You're not 46... Prove it! Show me your ID”
"This has to be fake!" they cry and stare.
But how do you prove what time won't touch-
When truth wears an ageless glare?
I look at my high school senior picture…
Same me... Same face…Same age
As if the years just circled round
afraid to turn the page.
Arthritis, diabetes, osteoporosis
My bones betray me every day
But my face! My Fucking face!
Why won’t you age? Why won’t you pay?
Soon my kids will be older than me.
Their eyes will wrinkle where mine stay wide.
They'll call me "Mom," but I'll look like myth,
A ghost who never died.
My partner will be 80, I'll still look 20-
Gold digger, they'll assume with ease.
They won't see the decades we've weathered,
Only the lie that lives in my cheeks.
No records of this exist.
I am unique.
I always have been.
When she finished, she didn’t feel relief.
She felt exposed.
Like time had skipped her.
Like she was a glitch in the universe’s design.
Later that night, she showed the photo to her daughter Amara.
“Mom… you look exactly the same.”
Jazmine nodded. “I know.”
Amara tilted her head. “Is it… bad?”
Jazmine didn’t answer right away.
“It’s strange,” she said finally. “It’s lonely.”
Because beauty without aging isn’t a gift.
It’s a question that never gets answered.
Chapter 15: She Stands Unnamed
There was no ceremony.
No final act. No curtain call.
Just Jazmine, standing in her studio, barefoot on paint-splattered wood, surrounded by canvases that had witnessed her becoming.
She had written the last poem without knowing it was the last.
But when she read it aloud—She Stands Unnamed—she felt it.
The quiet click of completion.
Not an ending.
Not a goodbye.
Just a breath.
A pause.
A truth reclaimed.
She didn’t need to sign it.
Didn’t need to explain it.
Because some stories aren’t meant to be closed.
They’re meant to echo.
She Stands Unnamed
No cloth to shield, no mask to wear
She meets the world, stripped and bare
A thousand scars beneath her glow
Each one a tale she let you know
She's the altar, not the flame
She needs no voice to stake her claim
She stands unnamed, but not unseen
A living symbol, soft and keen
Body bold, soul unashamed
Every breath a truth reclaimed
Hair like fire, hips like grace
She walks through time in sacred space
No gaze defines the way she moves
She's shaped by storms she didn't choose
Let the flowers crown her thighs
Let the stars reflect in her eyes
She's not yours to hold or keep-
She's the silence that makes you weep
She stands unnamed, and still, she sings
With open hands, she breaks the rings
A goddess born through pain and art-
The world must catch its stolen heart
The Benediction of Becoming
Jazmine’s journey was never about being understood.
It was about being seen.
Not as mother, poet, mystic, or muse—
but as the altar and the offering.
She stands unnamed, and in that, she is infinite.
So, if you’ve walked with her through these pages,
if you’ve felt the fire, the salt, the bloom—
Then you, too, have stood unnamed.
And you, too, have begun.
The Lipstick Behind the Story
I wrote this story because I needed a place to put everything I’ve carried.
The grief, the rage, the resilience. The parts of me that were silenced, shattered, or scattered across years I didn’t think I’d survive.
I am the mother of three children—two who live with their father, and one I had to give up for adoption.
I am the girl who lost her boyfriend to the one that got away.
I was the addict. I am recovered.
I am rising with the phoenix. I am shopping for combat boots with the unicorn.
Jazmine is my mirror and my myth.
She speaks in verses because sometimes poetry is the only language that can hold the truth.
She walks through heartbreak and sacred awakenings, just like I have.
She is unnamed, but never unseen—just like every version of me that fought to be heard.
This story is my reclamation.
It’s for the girls who write poems in the margins of their lives.
For the mothers who carry love and loss in equal measure.
For the ones who’ve been broken and still chose to rise.
We are beautifully broken.
We are perfectly imperfect.
We put the awe in flaws.
Some days we are a hot mess.
But all days we are a beautiful disaster.
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