@Tierrah Nicole

@Laron Henderson

Running runs me: ribcage rattling, rhythm rewriting reason, but now… recovery rests in repetition. January finds me raw: February re-stitched what rupture revealed, March remembered how breath returns without begging. Roads remember my restless repeats, but this time, I am not running from ruin, I am rehearsing renewal. Reach, rupture, reroute… then return, each month a ribbon retying me to myself, each step rewriting the dream in real time.

Hmm 🤔 I'll be back

Prompt 1 & 3 Between the Pointing and the Light I did not wake, I slipped back through a door my body never touched. The field was already breathing. Gold heads bowed in unison, not to me, but to a promise rehearsing itself somewhere past sight. A bench waited like a sentence unfinished by someone who knew I’d return. They were there again not arriving, not leaving just kept. One carried the hush of lullabies that raised me without asking, the other wore truth like a garment that never wrinkles. I stood between them, a living hinge on a door that doesn’t close. The sky half-shadow, half-spill— held morning in its mouth but hadn’t decided to speak it. Then the weight of earth loosened its grip on them. They became lighter than memory, softer than breath leaving. And still they pointed. No names. No directions. Just a line drawn through the air that everything else obeyed. The flowers turned like a congregation without a preacher. The wind leaned forward as if it knew the ending. “This is where we need you.” The words did not travel: they rooted. Inside bone. Inside choice. Inside the quiet places I keep postponing. I asked where? but the question fell wrong, like trying to plant stone in a field that only understands becoming. Far off, light began to unbutton the dark slow, deliberate, revealing nothing, but the certainty of its own arrival. And something in me trembled.. not fear, not grief.. recognition. Like I had been walking away from that horizon long before I ever dreamed it. The bench exhaled behind me. The field did not call it waited. And just as my feet remembered what forward feels like. I was pulled back, into a room too small to hold what I had seen. Morning sat on my chest like a secret that refuses language. No map. No answer. Only this. A pointing that follows me through ordinary hours, through choices dressed as delays, through every moment I pretend not to know. And sometimes when the world goes quiet enough. I feel that field again turning.. not toward where I am, but toward who

Some lessons never knock, they settle in the bones, unannounced, like dusk teaching the sky how to let go. I am a daughter of taughtquiet; raised on glances that said more than sermons, on silence thick as Sunday morning air, where every unsaid thing still found a way to be heard. No one told me how to endure, but I watched backs bend without breaking, watched hands crack open just to keep love fed. I learned survival in the space between sighs. Taughtquiet lived in my mother’s eyes, in the way she swallowed storms and called it “just another day.” It lived in the kitchen, where burnt edges and soft centers taught me balance without a word. I know how to read a room before it speaks. I know tension by the way it breathes. I know love by how it lingers after it leaves. No teacher claimed this knowing, no chalk marked its shape, yet it carved me anyway, soft and sharp at once. And now I carry it, this quiet inheritance, this language without sound, a fluency in feeling, a wisdom that hums beneath the skin. Because some truths aren’t spoken they’re absorbed. And once you’ve learned them… you never un-know what taughtquiet has already said.

@Miss Lady I played it this morning again. OK so when it come out Baby, yeah I’m getting That.

@Miss Lady right back at you