Gratitude of a bad bitch

I wake up like the sun

not rising, but reigning.

My smile? A crown.

My strut? A sermon.

My life? Overflowing.

I’m grateful for lashes that flirt with the wind,

for hips that sway like gospel choirs,

for melanin kissed by God’s own palette,

for edges laid like sacred geometry.

I give thanks for every “no” that led to my “hell yes,”

for every mirror that reflects not just beauty,

but resilience wrapped in rhinestones.

I’m grateful for my girls—

the ones who hype me louder than thunder,

who hold my secrets like heirlooms,

who dance with me in the kitchen

like joy is a birthright.

I’m grateful for heartbreak,

because it taught me to love myself louder.

For the haters,

who unknowingly built my runway.

I’m grateful for glitter,

for gospel,

for gucci,

for grace.

For the way I laugh—

full-bodied, unbothered,

like I know the universe is conspiring in my favor.

I’m grateful for the divine drama of being alive,

for the way the stars wink at me,

for the way my dreams wear stilettos

and never apologize.

This world?

It’s not just good.

It’s fabulous.

And I’m living proof.

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