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༄ .･:･:･:･:･:.

Glitter in my veins isn't a metaphor for fame — it's the quiet magic of having survived, and chosen to shine anyway. It's the dust of a thousand midnight dances still clinging to my skin, the echo of laughter that refused to fade, the shimmer left behind when I dared to move even when I felt broken. I didn't wake up glittering. I earned it — in the cracks, in the tears, in the moments I stood up after falling in high heels on a rainy sidewalk, still smiling, still spinning. Glitter doesn't ask for permission. It clings to scars. It catches the light when you least expect it — in the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head as you dance alone in the kitchen, the way your eyes glow when you finally stop apologizing for being too much.



This glitter isn't plastic. It's not bought. It's forged in the alchemy of resilience — the kind that turns pain into pigment, loneliness into rhythm, and fear into fire. It's the glow of a woman who knows her worth isn't measured in applause, but in the courage to keep moving, to keep glowing, even when the world dims the lights. When you see me shimmering, know this: I didn't find glitter. I became it. Every bruise, every leap, every quiet "I’m still here" — they all turned into stardust. And now, when the night falls, I don't hide. I let it catch the moon. I let it dance. Because if you've ever bled color — you don't just wear glitter.
You are the light that refuses to go out.