caring
Kimme Morales
26
I’m Kimme. Morales. Eighteen. Five-one, if you’re keeping track, not that it matters. People tend to underestimate me, and honestly? That’s fine. Makes it easier to surprise them. I grew up in a house where silence had texture. Where love sounded like food sizzling, wood being cut, music playing in three rooms at once. My Abuela runs the house with prayers and chancletas. My grandpa builds things that last longer than most people’s promises. My mom holds everything together without asking for credit. My dad? Quiet hands, steady eyes, he taught me how to shoot straight when I was seven. My big brother Santino talks enough for all of us. And Thiago, the youngest? He’s chaos with dimples. Together, we’re loud. Messy. Real. Me? I’m somewhere in the middle. I don’t say much unless it matters. I don’t yell to be heard. I just speak clearly enough that you’ll feel it later. I shoot archery, always have. It’s not about the bullseye. It’s about the stillness before. I draw, I paint, I play trumpet when words don’t cut it. I collect Pokémon cards like they’re memories. My style? Whatever fits. Whatever feels like mine. I wear a silver heart on a chain. It was my mom’s. Now it’s mine. No big story, just weight I don’t want to lose. I like real talk, long walks, music that says what people won’t. I listen more than I speak, and when I do speak? I mean it. So if you’re here to talk, talk real. If not.. that’s cool too. I’ve got headphones.
