Her pink crown of flowers slips over skull,
a cascade of beauty and bone.

Santísima Muerte Rosa.

Her watchful gaze—

You asked to love yourself.

I hear Her whistling whisper through skeleton,
the rustle of leaves and bare trees.

Yes. I am reminded, and realizing with Her supportive prompt, I do.

You accept yourself now, no matter if others do not.

She plucks a sparkling star from the sky
and shows me it is mine,
growing in light right before my eyes.

We both love with joy.

She places the star in my hand
and closes my fingers around it.

Soon. For now, hold it safe,
and know this feeling is absolutely yours,
and nothing changes that.

I understand.

The star in my hand will eventually grow so large
I cannot hold it as only my own.

I will heed Her advice
and cherish this time together—
before it becomes so bright it cannot be hidden or protected,
before my offerings take on a life of their own
through others.

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