being a woman

She lies in bloom — soft flesh, against the memory of thorns. petals tracing the map of what was taken, sweetness cut open by desire.

Hands have praised her, hands have torn her.

Now silence, breaks like glass. The scent of roses turns to warning. Beneath her skin, a storm hums — not of grace, but of fury,

She is the thorn that bleeds beauty.

Forged in silence, veiled in chains — Every shimmer recalls the weight of the gaze, every silence, the echo of unheard voices.

She does not hide, she carries. she reclaims.

from that silence, power rises — not to conquer, but to redefine.

She climbs, not to rise — but to prove the height was never theirs to grant. Silver clings to her like armour, not decoration, but declaration.

The world watches for her fall. But she doesn’t falter. She stands, sure on the rungs, as if steel was made to hold her.

Every step dismantles a myth, tool in hand, undoing what was built to keep her out. She climbs, and the world finally looks up.

she dresses for the pulse beneath her skin, not for the stare that weighs, not for the mouths that name.

she does not reject beauty, only its cage. she dresses for herself, to feel strength, to feel alive, not to shrink beneath their gaze.

A naked object kept on leash — eyes sealed, mouth mute. now the gaze is reversed. How does it feel, to be seen, to be powerless, to be the body instead of the watcher?

She blooms where others hide. Grass grows wild beneath her arms, FLOWERS spill from her skin — life refusing to be trimmed.

They called her different, but difference is how nature speaks. Every petal, every imperfection— a verse in the hymn of life.

Her ears catch. what others forgot: the laughter of wind, the pulse of the ground. She was never made to please — she was made to bloom.

She stands as one, yet she carries them all— the women of every sky, every silence, every fight.

Her skin speaks every language: the fair and the dark, the freckled, the scarred.

Each shade she wears carries a weight — of culture, of gaze.

She is the fusion of stories told in whispers and wars, in lullabies and protests.

She is every woman: different, complete, and beautifully unique.