Photos are Forever 📸

 ✨revelation✨

They do not simply hang in frames or glow on screens— they carve themselves into the mind like initials in an old oak, etched so deep the bark grows around them, yet never swallows them whole.

A photo does not flinch. It does not backpedal or swear on its mother’s grave. It does not dress itself up in excuses. It simply stares back—quiet, undeniable, like a preacher’s wife catching you at the liquor store on Sunday morning.

And when it is the picture you prayed you would never see— it wounds the heart in a way no blade could manage, cutting deep, carving its way into chambers that once held hope like a living thing.

But the waters of truth always follow the image. They open the eyes wide— pouring out like tears from a soul that begged God for a different ending.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but when that picture shatters your heart into a thousand pieces, it forces you to see things as they were all along— not as you dreamed them to be.

Those caverns of hurt become winding rivers. And as the tears flow, they begin to fill the hollow spaces until the heart, heavy with truth, finds its weight shifting toward freedom.

Because tears are holy water when they fall from an awakened soul. They wash away the cobweb lies, they rinse the rust from your faith, they carve new channels for grace to run through.

Liars will always lie— bless their black little hearts—  but the truth will always outshine them. And when you have cried it clean, you will see the picture for what it really is: not the proof of what you lost, but the marker of where you began to heal.

And to the liar— she sees you now, clear as a cypress silhouette at sunset. No shadow can cover what the light has already found. Every pixel, every line, every glance caught in that frame is a truth you can never rewrite.

It will sit in her memory like a stone in still water quiet, heavy, unmoving. Not to haunt her, but to remind her. Liars will always lie. But she will always remember.

Moon & Rattlesnake 🌙

✨A Creek poetic legend of grief, betrayal, and the songs of serpents✨

They say she used to walk among us. The Moon.

Not just a light in the sky, but a woman with silver skin and a voice like river lullabies— low and lonesome, full of secrets. She moved like dusk— soft and sure, carrying the scent of magnolia and mourning.

And lawd, she loved that man. A warrior carved from cedar and fire, with a jaw that could slice lies in two and eyes that saw too much.

She gave him her light. Wrapped it ‘round his shoulders like a shawl stitched from starlight and bone. Sang to his scars, bathed his rage in quiet. She believed him even when his truth came with splinters.

But one summer night, when the cypress were heavy with ghosts and the frogs held their breath, he laid his promises at another woman’s feet. He kissed her beneath the same moon that had once watched him swear forever.

And the Moon— she broke. 

Not with thunder. 

Not with fire. 

But with silence.

She turned her face away from the earth, packed her sorrow into shadow, and rose. High. Higher. Until she became untouchable. Cold, yes. But only because warmth cost too much.

And the Rattlesnake, her old protector— the one who once slept at her feet curled like a question— he watched her go. He slithered through the cane brake, traced her light on still water, and wept the only way he knew how: with song.

That’s why he rattles. Not to scare you. But to remember her. Every shake of his tail is a hymn. Every coil a memory. And when he rises to strike, it’s not rage— it’s grief. Because the Moon was his kin, his keeper, his queen. And she’s never coming back down.

So if you see him on the trail— don’t run. Don’t scream. Just bow your head and whisper:

“I, too, have loved someone who forgot my light.”

She is her own Hosea 🖤

✨for the woman who waited in the wilderness✨

Where was her Hosea when she was going through it?

When the wind howled louder than her prayers

and the roof of her faith caved in?

Where was he

when their daughter lay wilted—

bones aching,

spirit flickering like a candle in the drafts of doubt—

While she blamed her own womb

for not building her stronger?

Where was he

when she ran like a ghost through her own memories,

fleeing the hollers of childhood that still echo in her bones,

too afraid to name the things that hunted her in the dark?

Where was her Hosea

when she needed a man

who didn’t just wear Jesus like a Sunday suit,

but became Him—

bending low with healing in his hands,

and mercy on his breath?

Where was he

when she stood barefoot in the rain,

begging him to see her

with new eyes—

eyes not dulled by disappointment or dust,

but burning with a love reborn in the furnace?

Where was her Hosea

when she needed forgiveness—

not preached,

but poured out

like oil on her aching head—

thick with grace,

holy enough to stay?

Where was he

when the wilderness called her back,

when she asked him to follow,

not to fix her,

but to find her?

Her Hosea

was running to the arms of another woman

while she was collapsing in her own.

Her Hosea

was rocking someone else’s children to sleep,

while she was rocking in the corner

trying not to scream.

He brought her family to church

while theirs unraveled in the pews.

He stood in the light with her—

all smiles and hallelujahs—

but wouldn’t step into the dark with his wife 

when she begged for just one hand to hold.

He watched her waste away—

become a stranger even she couldn’t recognize—

and still,

he blamed her.

For all of it.

Just like every man before him—

he ran.

Ran from the mess.

Ran from the mirror she became.

Ran from the questions

he didn’t have the courage to ask,

and the answers he didn’t want to carry.

She asked him once—just once—

to pray for her.

He said it made him “uncomfortable.”

As if her unraveling was too sacred for his convenience.

Where was her Hosea

when she needed basic love?

Not sermons.

Not perfection.

Just love.

He was too busy

entertaining CEOs and sales reps,

laughing in circles where she didn’t belong,

while she folded laundry and grief

in the same quiet room.

So, she did what women like her always do:

She prayed for herself.

She held herself.

She sat in the dark with herself.

And herself asked the questions

she needed someone to ask:

“What’s the matter, baby girl?

How can I help you?”

She picked up her own heart from the pile of ashes he left her in.

She carried it to safety.

She bandaged the wounds with the love she never got.

She spoke to Wisdom, and she told her the truth of

 “I Am.”

She ate healing like candy—

sweet and slow,

until it filled every hollow place in within her.

And now—

She wakes every day with intention.

She looks fear in the face.

She sits in her own shadow

and hold that little girl’s hand.

She became the mother she needed.

She became the husband she thought she had.

Because their children

deserve someone to pray over them—

not someone who performs religion,

but someone who walks with God in bare feet,

mud on their hem,

and truth in their mouth.

They deserve more than a suit and pews.

They deserve a faith that actually looks like Love.

Not the kind preached from pulpits

built by men

and lies—

but the kind built from

ashes,

mercy,

and a woman who never gave up.