Pirouettes on broken toes. Cross tucked in leotard—when the music swells, I imagine it’s God’s metronome. Critics say my performance has “holy fury.” Amen to that.
M
Maria Gonzalez
Migrant Mother’s Compass
Crossed borders with just this and my kids. When ICE glared, the crystal warmed. Now I clean houses wearing it—clients say their dogs “act peaceful.” Coincidence? I keep scrubbing.
E
Elara Moon
Dying Poet’s Final Verse
Terminal diagnosis in my 30s. Wearing this as I write my last lines. The cross doesn’t promise miracles—it whispers, “Your words will outlive the pain.” Published posthumously tomorrow.