(a tribute to C.S. Pacat)

on a bed
of white flowers,
etched on my wrist,
I wear it as a vow,
above the place
my pulse
tenderly blooms,
forgetting to lie.

her soft handwriting
is a reminder of a journey
I had once taken
between the lines,
forgiveness forming,
from lashes to petals,
on bruised pages.

I carry her with me,
their story, her essence,
kingdoms folding into skin,
her words marking
not only a change,
but a becoming —
the slow-burn
of identity
I can finally place.