Author: Wolverine Lily

This blog is a reflection of my unpredictable journey through life, full of Dreams, Humor and Surprises! I write poems to heal, prose to consolidate my thoughts, and stories to entertain. I like to write about love because it’s a beautiful thing that everyone seeks. Whether you're looking for a comforting read or a burst of laughter, my blog offers a little bit of everything, as I navigate the wonderful chaos of life. I share insights on parenting, poetry, health, fitness, and more. Feel free to reach out!

Toe-morrow Never Dies: A Battle with the Bone

Don’t judge the book by the cover. And don’t judge people by… their feet!

Let me tell you a story about one bone that invaded many lives (including mine), with one heck of an attitude—almost literally.

A bunion. Not a cute name for not a cute bone. Apparently, it’s very common among women. And, with age, it becomes more pronounced—in medical terms. But in plain English: it’s annoying and ugly.

Unlike the onion, you can’t peel off its layers. But it sure can make you cry! Bunion with a B for the Brute—a Brutal Bone! Not a B for “Beautiful.” Rather, a Bitch, relentless and rebellious, that often takes center stage in my life.

When it first peeked years ago, I thought it was a sixth toe about to hatch. Yet, many Easters went by and still no ugly ducklings—just five toes and one fat ‘plumpy’ egg.

So why not cover it with shoes?

But what type of footwear can accommodate this deformation? Thought of that?

Summers are terrible: a season of Toezillas storming in the sun. Forget flip-flops on the beach. It’s like Mount Toeverest on full display. Massive and entirely unapologetic. Unconquerable.

Strappy sandals are even worse because bunions always find a way to poke through the straps. They’re like little rhinoceroses, busting out of cages through the bars, claiming their freedom.

Shoe shopping is a disaster. Nothing fits! It’s not like I’m picky—Ms. Bunion is! She deprives me of stylish choices! Constantly interfering and always getting her way. Flats? If the cut isn’t deep enough, Everest gets sliced by the edge. Pointy shoes? It’s like walking in a funnel. I’d rather stick my foot in a blender.

And don’t get me started on the fancy devices promising miracles. The commercials scream: “correct alignment,” “overnight relief,” and “back to beautiful feet.” Lies! I’ve tried them all. I’ve imprisoned my foot into toe spreaders, medieval-looking separators, nighttime braces that make you stomp like Frankenstein on heels. I even bought something called a “bunion boot” once. It looked like a snow tire attached for punishment.

I remember standing on a beach last summer, when my friend casually glanced at my foot and said, “You’ve got one of those big bones. My mom had that.” I laughed it off saying, “Yup, I do. I can’t do anything about it.”

And that’s when the story flipped.

I have no control over my anatomy, but I have the mind-power to decide how I feel about it.

I’m done feeling embarrassed! I’ve decided to give my bunion the spotlight it demands. I mean, it’s been fighting for attention for years, right?

Why do we try so hard to hide something that clearly wants to stand out? Maybe that bone was never meant to be covered. What if it’s not a deformity—but a declaration?

In ancient Greece, a high forehead was associated with wisdom and intelligence. Large ears were believed to signify wisdom and attentiveness. In some East Asian cultures, elongated earlobes are considered a sign of longevity and good fortune. A prominent nose has been linked to strength of character and leadership, especially in Roman and Greek depictions of emperors and gods. In China, women bound their feet to make them smaller because that was considered beautiful. A long neck symbolized elegance in African cultures. Thick lips indicated sensuality and fertility, especially if you were channeling your inner goddess. And if your second toe was longer than your big toe, congratulations—you were born a leader.

For centuries, people found meaning in every curve, dip, and dimple of the human body. But somehow, the bunion has been left out. No legends… or at least I haven’t found any. Why? Because it was meant for embarrassment and discomfort? No, because nobody had assigned it a magical meaning.

What if the bunion is not a flaw—but a secret sign? A mark of resilience or a fighting spirit? If this bone can endure years of bad shoes, public toe-shaming, and test gadgets from late-night infomercials, it’s clearly not just a bone—it’s a warrior!

I’m calling it the “Woman who can walk through fire.” It’s time the bunion had its myth. Beauty has always been subjective—a performance.

So the next time you notice someone stare, just confidently say, “Yeah, I’ve got a superpower.” Because you do, so own it—with style, sass, and just a hint of bad-ass Toezilla.

Toes crossed!

Insatiable

Cage me with your limbs,
Nourish the flames of our desire.
Let me hold you so close—
Feel you—
Melt to mist in our seamless embrace.

Our breaths entwine,
Drenched in the sultry steam,
Until your body nourishes mine,
Subdue my scorching thirst for you—

Insatiable—

And release my spirit,
Like the heat shimmer rising from the sand,
Ascending beyond ethereal heights.
I surrender…

And when we fall back to earth,
Together—whole and bound,
As one.
Indivisible.

Author’s Note:
This piece may look familiar, but like passion itself, poetry evolves. I removed the unrefined version a while ago because it felt unfinished, incomplete. I let it fully breathe, then reshaped it—until it became what it was always meant to be. This is the latest version, more final. Though still… insatiable. 🙂

Incongruous

“This is wrong!” they shout.
“Don’t do it!”

I don’t want to think what’s right—
what’s right anymore?

I’ve been doing all the right things:
behaved right,
got the right degree,
married the right guy…

Still, I ended up in the wrong place—
or the wrong end
of the right place,
at most.

A precise blueprint,
yet wayward—
disarrayed,
veering off the ideal design.

I’m incomplete. Misaligned.

Isn’t that right?
For me—it’s wrong.

Why is it wrong?
I did all the right things?

Why then, amidst all these rights,
do I feel misplaced—
a lucky penny lost in a dry desert,
gleaming in the sun,
yet inconspicuous in the sand—
Blindly chasing paths
marked right or wrong.

Incongruous.

Why is it wrong,
doing what feels right?

I’m tempted to do what’s wrong—
forbidden,
There’s a thrill in rebellion,
a treasure awaiting discovery in the shadows.

But what if it’s not wrong?
And perhaps even right—
right for me.

So, if I do wrong things,
maybe at least
I’ll finally feel right.

Let’s do more wrong,
but do it right!

A New Year’s Spark

New beginning calls,
Dreams awaken, hearts ignite,
Will this spark yet flare?

Author’s Note:
As the New Year unfolds, a wave of fresh inspiration has washed over me, imprinting new ideas. This is my very first attempt at writing a Haiku (though I’m not sure I like it), and it feels like a way to capture my hopes and plans for a new beginning. I wish this spark will illuminate the dark path ahead of me in 2025.

Wishing you all a Happy New Year!

Lighthouse of Childhood Dreams

Dreams, my child, are treasures deep,
Cradled in your heart where they safely sleep.
While coins and jewels swell with rust,
Your dreams are the riches that defy all dust.

On a tree of wishes, tags swing high,
Soft tears whispered to the everlasting divine sky.
Gold may glitter, diamonds may gleam,
But nobody can ever steal a sweet childhood dream!

Health is wealth, the wise declare,
Yet, dreams have wings beyond compare.
So dream your dreams, chase them far,
A priceless gift—a magical shooting star.

Your dreams are fires that never die,
A beaming lighthouse—guiding you through the night.
So dream big, dear child, the world is wide,
Open your heart, let your dreams soar with pride.

The Mirror of Trust

I stare into the mirror.
I see myself—those worried eyes I know so well.
“What do you fear?” I ask.
“I’m afraid to take this step,” she replies.
“Don’t. I’ll be with you holding your hand.”

She doesn’t trust me but begins to climb.
Step by slow step.
I watch her go up beyond my reach.
My legs tremble.
My heart pounds in my ears.
She reaches the highest highs,
I can barely see her.

“I’m scared,” she screams as she looks down.
“How will I get down?”
“Jump,” I encourage her.
“Impossible! I will die!”
“You won’t. I will catch you,” I assure.

She hesitates.
“I can’t! I’m terrified!” she cries.
“Just trust me,” I whisper.
“If you fall, I’ll fall… with you.”

Her quivering feet slide to the edge,
I catch my breath,
She plunges into the unknown.
First, like a rock tossed in the wind,
Then she unfolds her arms—
Delicate wings, unsure they will hold her,
Yet she spreads them wide in growing confidence,
As feathers grow from her skin.

I hint a smile and behold her glide,
A bird soaring on a gale.
I extend my arms into the air.
“What if I can’t do this?” I doubt myself.
Terror embraces me from behind.
“If you fail, I fail too,”
Her mutter echoes in my heart.

She lands within me,
I ripple like a drop cascading into a lake,
Peacefully blending into placid waters.

Was it her or me?
Who truly made it?

I stare into the mirror.
I see myself—those worried eyes I know so well.
“What do you fear?” she asks.
“I’m scared to take this step.”
“Don’t. I’ll be with you holding your hand,” she replies.

I climb with trembling legs.
She will catch me, she’ll find a way—
As I once did.
I’ll find my wings…
Just as she once found hers.

Chicago Winter Haunt

The tower clock struck 1:00 am. The cold of the Chicago night was more than just winter’s bite. I raced toward the train station, feeling a presence behind me. The sensation gnawed at my nerves, each step amplifying my mounting dread. I stopped and turned around, scanning the empty street. Nothing. Only the faint hum of distant traffic. Yet, the cold was strange, unnatural even for a Chicago winter. It was as if I’d opened a freezer, and the frigid air engulfed me, and the night itself held its breath, waiting.

I descended into the subway station, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The chill seemed to seep into my bones. God, I would give anything for a hot cup of tea. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, trying to preserve any remaining warmth.

“Got a light?” A deep male voice shattered the silence. I jolted, my heart leaping to my throat. A dim light revealed a towering figure emerging from behind a poster post. It wasn’t a man—it was a horse-like creature walking on two legs. Four deliberate steps, each click-clop of hooves echoing ominously, brought him closer. He wore black velveteen trousers and a perfectly tailored tuxedo jacket, and an oversized bow tie. A long wool scarf that hung almost to his knees completed the odd vintage wardrobe. His horse head was real, crowned by a magician’s hat.

“No,” I mumbled, my breath visible in the now Arctic air.

“No, you don’t,” he confirmed, his voice a melodic contradiction to his horrifying appearance. “But you have something else I want.”

Terror surged through me. His eyes—or rather, the dark, smoke-filled voids where his eyes should be—seemed to pierce my soul. His cigarette lit itself, the ember glowing in the dim station. I was paralyzed, unable to look away.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, a blend of fear and curiosity.

A long pause. He stepped closer, the click-clop of his hooves unnaturally loud. I stepped back, but he matched my movements perfectly.

“Your grandmother never told you the truth. You left before your 17th birthday, never to see her again before she died,” he said, his voice unsettlingly calm. “Your grandmother was a witch. And so are you.” He smiled revealing his half-rotten yellow teeth. The stench emanating from his mouth was hardly bearable.

My mind reeled. “What do you want from me?” I demanded, the words tasting of panic.

“We need you. You need us. Join us, and…” The roar of the approaching train drowned his words. Without a glance, he jumped onto the tracks, disintegrating into a cloud of smoky dust as the train barreled through him.

I bolted up the stairs, adrenaline turning my fear into flight. No way was I getting on that train! My heart hammered in my chest as I ran through the city’s early stirrings, barely registering my surroundings. Familiar landmarks blurred past me. Somehow, I found myself in front of my building. Had I really run five miles?

I stopped, gasping for breath, when I noticed something was off. Looking down, I was shocked to see my feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn’t just standing; I was floating, suspended in the air. Panic escalated to a new high. This was impossible! But as I willed myself to descend, I gently touched down on the sidewalk. The realization hit me like a lightning bolt: I was a witch! This wasn’t a dream or a hallucination—it was real.

I stood paralyzed, staring at the lake. My thoughts raced, heart pounding with the shock of the revelation. Words about my grandmother echoed in my mind, the truth undeniable. I was a witch. Maybe that’s why people felt intimidated around me.

* * *

The sound of a helicopter roused me. My hands and feet were numb from cold. I was still by the lake, the sunrise partially reflecting in the calm waters. Had I fallen asleep standing there? The memory of the subway encounter felt like a bizarre dream.

“Good morning,” said the doorman as I entered the lobby.

Awaiting the elevator, I smiled at the absurdity of being a witch. My grandmother, a tiny yet formidable woman, always seemed to have superhuman energy. Barely five feet tall, but her presence was like a force of nature. She lived on a farm her entire life. I recalled her talking to animals, particularly her cow while milking. Could she have been a witch? The thought of her hidden objects, candles, and mirrors now seemed less whimsical and more significant. I have a vague memory of an accident during a hot summer harvest, where she lifted a horse! I never knew how she had found the strength.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped, and an intense light pierced through a small opening above, stretching like an aurora. It grew blinding.

“Your thoughts are all correct, my dear,” came my grandmother’s calming voice.

“Grandma?” I whispered, feeling like a child again. The sweet scent of her apple pie filled the air. Tears streamed down my cheeks. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I never got the chance to tell you, but you always had a sense of it, didn’t you?”

“Are you really a witch? Am I?”

“There isn’t much time left. You must discover your powers quickly. He wants you, and you must find your abilities before he does.”

“Grandma, what are you talking about? What powers? How do I know my powers?” I was overwhelmed with questions. “I was flying. Is this my power?” I asked, curious.

“Flying is a natural gift, just like playing with light. The four elements—Water, Earth, Wind, and Fire—are your playful friends, too.” I sensed a smile in her warm voice. “Animals and plants are gifts of the Earth. They are already in your heart. Keep them close. But you must find your own unique powers,” she emphasized.

“How?” I was desperate.

“You must find a way. Find them before He does.” She paused. A small box landed in my hand. “Accept being a witch before sunset. There is a full moon tonight. As a sign of acceptance, put one of the rings on before the sunset and the moon rises. If not, you decline it. The rings not only bestow powers but also protection. Wear at least one on your ring finger.”

“But if you accept it, there is one trade-off: You must give up love. It’s hard for witches to find real love—not impossible, but difficult and impractical.” She sighed. “Remember our relationship with your grandfather? Witches are cursed. We can’t find true love.”

This was too much for me. My head was spinning.

“I have so many questions…” I started, but she cut me off.

“You can do so much good, dear.”

Her voice faded, replaced by the hum of the elevator. My mind was racing. Could I embrace this legacy? Did I have a choice? I held a box of rings in my hand. I couldn’t stop staring at them. The box emitted a soft glow. Then I looked down at my feet planted on the floor. I rose onto my toes, pointed them, and pushed hard. And it happened. I took off, levitating a few inches above the ground, just like before. This was real. I was a real witch! That would explain so many mysterious things. As the elevator door slid open, I floated out of it toward my door.

I spent the entire day in front of the window, staring at the lake, rewinding my life in my head, while holding the box with rings in my hand. The realization that I was a witch came with a heavy burden. What are my gifts and powers? What will I do with them?

The sun began to touch the horizon, and the hardest question still lingered: Am I willing to give up love—the one thing I have always wanted so much? But what if I am really cursed and there is no love for me? The thought terrifies me. To give up on love feels like giving up on a part of my soul. Yet, love has evaded me for so long. Can I keep chasing something that might never find?

I took a deep breath and opened the box. One by one, I slipped the rings on my right ring finger. “I will be married to myself,” I whispered. The words felt both empowering and heartbreaking.

As the last ring settled, I felt a surge of energy. I was a witch. I had chosen power and purpose over a dream that seemed out of reach. Perhaps this was my own form of devotion, a commitment to a different kind of life, one where I could still do good, even if it meant giving up on love. In that moment, the sun immersed in the lake. I watched it disappear, casting a warm orange glow.

This is my first stab at a fantasy piece. I drew inspiration from the cold Chicago Metro and my wild imagination.

Little Chalky Feet

Her little feet with chalky dust,
Growing up too fast to last!
Sidewalk art with siblings’ cheer,
A special time my heart holds dear.

Amid each day’s relentless race,
These tiny toes print love I chase,
And memories carved to last forever,
Of joyful days we laughed together.

Author’s Note:
Some moments are just too precious to let fade, right? My youngest daughter’s chalky feet—capturing the fun and colors of a sunny afternoon in the park (before she turned 4.) I stumbled upon this photo and couldn’t let it go. It inspired this short poem and now lives here, safe and treasured. 🙂

Hunter’s Moon: Phases in Life

I’ve always felt drawn to full moons. My grandma used to call me a child of the night, and I guess she was right. Last night’s Hunter’s Moon felt especially mystical, barely visible through the folding LA clouds, like the closing of a chapter. We all move through phases in life—sometimes we shine brightly, and other times we retreat into stillness, reflecting. At least, some of us do.

I used to love running at night under the full moon. Its silvery glow lit up my feet and the quiet streets, and I was captivated by it. But one night, I got hit by a car, and… well, that put an end to those midnight runs. Afterward, I embraced walks with their quiet wisdom, listening to what the night had to offer instead of sweating through it. You can spot me in the neighborhood, collecting my thoughts, often sipping hot tea. It’s the closest I get to meditation. The quiet has its own way of sparking ideas, doesn’t it?

No matter where you are, take a moment to look up. You might catch a glimpse between the clouds—maybe a thought, or even an answer to something that’s been resting heavy on your heart. These are moments meant for reflection. And dream.

A Stormy Encounter: A Kiss Worth Waiting For…

Author’s Note:
I’ve always wanted to write a passionate scene, even though, in my opinion, romantic plots are often overdone. Still, many horror stories I’ve read miss something… that subtle romantic subplot showing the soft and vulnerable side of the character. I needed to make sure my story didn’t overlook this aspect. True and authentic love is incredibly hard to find, right? Maybe that’s why we turn to books, hoping to glimpse and experience its magic through the characters we follow. Yet, if you’re lucky enough to experience the perfect kiss even once in your life, you’re truly fortunate. It’s worth the wait! On that note, as a self-proclaimed romantic, I had to weave this delicate thread into my dark story, obviously. 🙂

Here’s a glimpse of that moment from chapter 14 of my project, without giving too much away. ❤️

He put both hands firmly on her face, preventing her from slipping away. There was no way he would let her go this time. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

Before Nayah could respond, his lips found hers, soft and gentle at first, but full of hunger and intensity, waiting for her for far too long. She realized in that instant how much she wanted this—wanted him—more than she had ever admitted. She wrapped her arms around him, one hand sliding into his drenched hair. Her fingers dug in, feeling the tenderness of his skin. It was soothing and addictive—his warmth against the cold rain.

His hand shifted to cradle her neck, drawing her closer, as though he would never let her go. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was the way his entire body leaned into hers, every movement charged with meaning. His chest pressed against hers with desire to fill the spaces she had kept hidden from the world. Nayah responded, releasing a soft sigh. Her knees buckled slightly, but she shifted closer, seeking more of him. The kiss wasn’t just physical; it was an unraveling, a collapse of the last walls between them.

For a moment, nothing else existed—no haunted houses, no missing journals, no demons or keys—just this.

But the passionate kiss was interrupted when a sudden, loud crack of thunder reverberated beneath their feet. They pulled apart, both gasping, startled by the sound.

Nayah stepped back breathless. “What… what was that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice tight with unease.
The sky had darkened even further, thick clouds rolling in, casting the town square into a dark twilight. But something else felt off. Nayah sensed it—a prickling fear crawling over her skin.