Her body’s hers, but the world won’t see,
they draw lines on her skin like she’s not free—
every choice they think they own,
every path they call their own.
They say “do this,” “don’t dare try that,”
like she’s their mirror, like she’s trapped;
they carve their rules into her mind,
she’s told to smile, act soft, stay kind.
But choice, real choice, is fierce and raw,
and they can’t bear her without their law;
they call her wild, they call her wrong,
they paint her freedom like it won’t belong.
But she’s no canvas, no soft clay,
she’s iron forged, in her own way—
and every time they hold her down,
she rises, fierce, without a sound.
Her dreams are hers, her skin, her heart,
no one else can tear apart;
no borrowed words, no tethered chain,
her life’s her own to claim again.
So here she stands, fierce and whole,
unbroken spirit, fire and soul—
not for them, not to tame,
her body, her life—hers to reclaim.
---
That’s her power, hers alone, never theirs.
