breecoded.org

I dance. I love the tree I smoke when I dance — not to disappear, but to arrive…

I love to dance.

I love the tree I smoke when I dance — not to disappear, but to arrive. It thins the veil between thought and feeling. Between who I am when watched and who I am when no one is here to witness the becoming.

When the music hums low, my body answers in a language older than words. Ankles humming. Spine unfolding. Hips drawing invisible symbols into the air. My power spreads like incense — slow, deliberate, impossible to rush.

The room becomes a container.  

The room becomes a witness.  

Shadows move with me. The ceiling feels closer. Time loosens its grip. I swear the air bends just enough to let me pass through myself. My energy returns to places it once abandoned — behind my ribs, in my thighs, under my breath.

This is not performance.  

This is invocation.

I am not dancing to be seen. I am dancing to remember. To call myself back into my skin. To soften the places that learned to brace. To heat the places that went cold from waiting.

In this state, my body feels like a prayer that answers itself. My complexion is not just surface — it is sensation, heat, vibration. Raw. Untranslated. Alive. This is where my softness becomes strength. Where pleasure becomes knowledge.

Few get to see her — the version of me that blooms in solitude. She moves like smoke and rain. She knows when to be quiet. She knows when to open. She knows the difference between escape and ritual.

And sometimes, mid-song, mid-breath, mid-sway —  

I feel it settle into my bones like a promise I don’t need to finish writing yet…