Moving the Margins We were never meant to live inside the lines they drew for us thin borders of doubt, boxed-in gravity names too small for the galaxies in our throats. So I stepped beyond the margin, where the moon leans low like a whispering mother, silver- skinned and knowing.She said, Child, you are not confined to earth you are a reflection of every orbit you survive. And the stars oh, the stars did not blink in distance, they pulsed like ancestral drums, calling our bones by their original names. We are not new here. We are the echo of worlds before this one learned language.We are kings with dust on our crowns, goddesses cloaked in skin, forgetting then remembering we were sculpted from divine intention, not limitation. There are other planets that know our footsteps, other skies that have held our fire.We have ruled in forms unspoken, loved in frequencies unmeasured, breathed in atmospheres where spirit was not questioned—only known. So why shrink now? Why fold your wings to fit inside a borrowed sky? The margins are moving can you feel it? Time itself is loosening its grip, ink bleeding into infinite possibility.The veil is thinning like mist at sunrise, and through it you can almost see yourself as you truly are: Not human trying to be divine,but divine…remembering how to wear human. The moon watches, the stars testify, and somewhere beyond this atmosphere your other selves are rising too, lifting their crowns, claiming their names, writing new worlds where there were once only edges. So move. Move the margins.Rewrite the orbit.Become the sky that refuses containment. Because existence true existence was never meant to be contained in the first place.

@Ericka Floyd

@Michelle Cox

@Michelle Cox

@Antwion Shamar Nice🫰🏾✍🏾

@M. a. Dennis

🔥🔥🔥

I write like a flag that never fell, even when hands tried to fold it into silence. Freedom is not a word we borrowed, it is a drum we built from bone and memory, a rhythm that survived saltwater crossings, chains that thought they could outlast spirit. Haiti— not just a place, but a pulse that refuses burial. We are the first breath after revolt, the echo that taught the world what “no” sounds like when it means forever. And still— they speak of us like a wound, forgetting we are also the scar that proves we healed without permission. Look closer. In stadium lights, in gold medals kissed by sweat, in fists raised on foreign soil, Haitian blood moves like prophecy. We are there. Nou la. Always there. From classrooms to courtrooms, from poems whispered in small rooms to victories shouted across continents— we build, we rebuild, even in places that forget who laid the first stone. Freedom is not easy. It is choosing to stay when leaving would hurt less. It is fighting for land that remembers your name even when the world mispronounces it. To those still standing guard holding the line where history cracked, we see you. Your courage is a quiet fire, burning through chaos, refusing erasure. And to the ones who left, who carry Haiti in their stride, in their wins, in their becoming, you are not gone. You are expansion. We are not a broken story. We are a loud one unfinished, unafraid, uncontained. So I write not to explain us, but to remind us: We were free before the world understood freedom. And we are still becoming what they said we couldn’t be.