Scars on your heart,
scars on your body.
Bones dipped in skin,
a soul in confinement.
Paint your lips red with blood,
and eyes with kohl.
Lashes with onyx,
and cheeks with gold.
Too much or too little,
and you'll wilt away
to be left as nothing but petals in the wind.
Potential wasted because
your beauty wasn't enough.
But outer beauty doesn't bind,
doesn't mould,
doesn't determine.
When you break free,
like a bird from a cage,
you are more than a breeze.
More than a whisper.
More than a word.
You're the fire within.
A gorgeous light somewhere between the fire and flame.
You are you.
A one of a kind,
glorious you.
With strength and power,
and a heart of gold.
You.
Resisting the roles a woman is forced to play.
You.
Glorious.
Beautiful.
You.
