I am.

I am more than these walls of my existence, this barrier of flesh between my truth and your red stained hands.

Do not mistake what I put on myself as an attempt of allure, of enticement, of servitude to your ideals. I will drip my skin in gold, in colours and fabrics so that my soul can sing along to the sound of my brightness, the sound of my bliss.

Do not mistake what I do not cover, what I do not hide as an attempt of allure, of enticement, of sin. What I show is skin, the walls of my existence, what keeps the majesty of my womanhood away from your red stained hands.

You will not separate me from myself, you will not cut me away and sort me in to categories for your purpose. My body, my brain, my soul and my sex are not malleable the way you insist they are. They exist as one. They are all me, and I am all of them.

I am.