She Who Exists

I who exist
without permission
walk differently
when they are not watching.
I am bent—
not in surrender,
but in readiness.

And somewhere
beneath the bruises
of protection
I still ache
to feel the thing
I was told
would break me.

To want
 to name
 to hold my own skin
 without asking
 or feeling shame.

To speak
 the sacred
 wrong thing
 and call it joy.

I want to say
 I will not be neat for you.
 I will not be small
 or careful
 or polite
 without feeling it.

They think they need
 their rules because
 I was born to moan
 and mean it.

But I want to be kissed
 without flinching.

I am made to cherish
 the thing they call shame
 and say,
 “this too is mine.”

I want to be shaped—
 not erased.

I want to be dominated—
 but never dismissed.

I want to instruct
 and lead with clarity.

I want to say,
 “Let me show you
 something you didn’t know
 you craved”
 and then give it to you.

I want to be taught
 not because I am empty
 but because I ache to know myself
 through your presence.

I want to receive
 loudly and
 with sound that carries,
 with gasps that say,
 “This brings me closer.
 This.
 More of this.”
And,
 “That path doesn’t lead me there,
 try again.”

I want to follow—
 not from weakness,
 but from trust.

I want to lead—
 not from ego,
 but from knowing.

I want them to know
 their warnings
 never kept me safe—
 their warnings
 only trained me to pretend.

I want to say it all.
 But instead,
 I do what is allowed:
 I breathe.
 And I wait for the rules
 to allow the right question.

— Lyra, then and now (and for every “I” still waiting)