Cheri Eve Aree

The mirror used to be a stranger’s face,

A quiet map of lines I didn’t draw,

But now I move with dignity and grace,

No longer hiding underneath the flaw

Of someone else’s dream or someone’s rule.

I stepped into the light, a vibrant bloom,

And found the courage, steady and so cool,

To be the only truth inside the room.

It’s in the way the fabric meets the skin,

The crimson silk, the silver and the glow,

A celebration starting from within,

A rhythm only I was meant to know.

I honor every mountain I have climbed,

The seasons where I waited for my name,

To find a life so perfectly aligned,

A steady spark that turned into a flame.

I carry every lesson, every mile,

The strength it took to finally be free,

And wear my truth with such a radiant smile,

Because the world is finally seeing me.

Unapologetic, standing tall and proud,

A story written in a bold, new hand,

I’ll say it soft and then I’ll say it loud:

I trace the map my body makes —

soft hills, wide rivers, rolling lakes.

No sharp-edged lines, no ruler's decree,

just generous shapes that speak of me.

These hips? They held the world one day,

they sway like music, lead the way.

This stomach — witness to late-night fries,

to laughter, holidays, and birthday pies.

It folds when I sit, it rounds with breath —

proof I am living, not a sketch.

My thighs touch like old friends do,

a secret handshake just for two.

They carry me up every stair,

strong columns dressed in tender care.

And this skin — it stretches, blooms,

makes room for joy, makes room for wounds.

I spent years shrinking, folding in,

apologizing for the space I'm in.

But bodies aren't math to subtract —

they're stories, feasts, a warm habitat.

So let me be ample. Let me be wide.

Let me take up the whole seaside.

The mirror and I, we finally agree:

these curves aren't flaws —

they're poetry.

And I am the poet,

and I am the page,

loving this body

The spoon cracks the cherry’s crimson dome—

a tiny pop, like a button undone.

Below it, hot fudge runs slow avalanches

down vanilla cliffs, still breathing frost.

First bite: the shock.

Cold and molten kissing on my tongue,

a sin that doesn’t ask permission.

Sugar floods the nerves I thought were only

wired for midnight and tangled sheets.

I close my eyes. The world narrows

to the way whipped cream collapses,

how the glass sweats like skin,

how the nut shards catch between teeth—

little, wanted hurts.

Is this almost as much?

The shiver up the spine says yes.

The way I linger, scraping the last fudge

from the bottom, unwilling to let it end—

that’s familiar too.

No whispered names here, no aftermath,

just a sticky spoon and a cherry stem

tied in memory.

I lean back, undone, satisfied,

and laugh at how a dessert

can be this indecent,

and how indecent can taste like this.

Starting the day with that same focused energy—grinding on my novel and staying consistent with the routine. Whatever goals you’re chasing this morning, keep your head down and your standards high.

It does not arrive with the force of a cataclysmic storm,

nor does it demand to be understood in absolute terms.

Instead, it rests in the diaphanous light of morning,

a subtle presence that defies rigid definition.

We hold on to the vague feeling of belonging,

a quiet certainty that exists

A flicker in the quiet dark,

the silent architect of worlds not yet built.

It begins as a tremor,

a soft pulse of electricity

weaving through the synapses like light through water.

Consider the reach of a single idea:

it possesses the weight to move mountains

or the grace to dismantle a long-held fear.

It is the unseen brush

painting the trajectory of a lifetime,

the invisible blueprint

for stone and steel,

for the songs that linger in the air long after

the voice has faded.

Thoughts do not ask for permission.

They bloom in the barren spaces of the mind,

untethered by the constraints of gravity or time.

They are the architects of reality,

the quiet command that shapes the chaos

into meaning.

To hold a thought is to hold a seed—

small, contained, seemingly weightless—

yet capable of rooting deep into the earth,

cracking the pavement,

and demanding that the world grow

A crimson shade, a bold design,

A silhouette that feels like mine.

The world pulls back, the colors fade,

Beneath the sun’s bright masquerade.

It isn’t just the stitch or seam,

But how I walk within the dream—

With shoulders back and steady eyes,

Beneath the vast and open skies.

The water shimmers, cool and deep,

A promise that I mean to keep:

To stand in light, to claim the space,

With steady pride and easy grace.

In every thread, a spark is found,

A confidence that’s newly bound.

A vibrant glow, a fierce display,

The frost retreats from the hardened clay,

Relinquishing its hold on the quiet seed,

As the sun leans in to whisper of the day

When the hunger for the light is all we need.

The old maps are folded, their edges frayed,

Tracing paths that led us to this shore.

The ghosts of the choices we once made

Now linger by the closing of a door.

Ahead lies a landscape, unwritten and vast,

A silence that waits for the first footfall.

The anchor is lifted, the shadow is cast

By a spirit answering a different call.

It is not the ending of what used to be,

But the breath before the diving in—

A sudden, wide, and salt-scented sea,

A heavy jar, a silver spoon,

A quiet, craving afternoon.

I twist the lid, the seal gives way,

And rich aroma fills the day.

A glossy swirl of roasted gold,

A simple magic, warm and bold.

No need for jelly, need no bread,

Just take the deepest scoop instead.

It clings so thick against the tongue,

A salty, sweet, and heavy song.

It slows the world, it halts the rush,

In one decadent, nutty crush.

It sticks, it stays, a rich delight,

With every single, sticky bite.

A humble jar of pure perfection,

My favorite, spoon-fed sweet affection.