A time I stared at my own WhatsApp profile —
a woman in a dress that clung like memory,
a full face of makeup that didn’t hide but revealed.
A woman soft, styled, stunning.
And someone asked me,
“Is this really you?”
I paused.
Because even I wasn’t sure.
The truth?
She died.
Not in one blow —
no, they devoured her slowly.
Men with greedy hands and greedy eyes,
who chewed her up
and blamed her for the feast.
Who called her beautiful
then punished her for it.
Who said she asked for the attention
and then offered nothing but shame in return.
So I cut my hair.
Short. Sharp. Boyish.
I carved the woman out of me like a threat.
Every time it grew back,
I saw her in the mirror — and so did they.
Even when I wasn't trying,
they were watching.
I’ve lived years like that —
hiding behind practicality,
choosing safety over softness.
Living small.
And I am already small —
4’11" and tired of ducking.
They used to see 4'11 and think:
small. sweet. manageable.
Like I was meant to be folded up,
tucked into pockets,
used for comfort,
never for confrontation.
They saw a cute face
and assumed it meant I didn’t bite.
But now?
I wear my height like a dagger in a velvet sheath.
I wear my softness like silk armor.
I don’t shrink.
I strike.
My face is not a flaw.
It is the mask of a thousand poems,
the reason they look twice,
and the reason they fear what they see the third time.
No longer will my beauty be used to undermine me.
No longer will my size be mistaken for submission.
Because I’m 4’11 of fire —
and everything they thought made me less
was always exactly what made me dangerous.
But now?
Now I want to look again.
I want to study what they see.
Not out of fear,
but from power.
So I’m conducting a social experiment.
A new self.
A third series.
To be both the Bohemian and the Belle.
One week, I’ll drift through the city in loose layers,
earth tones, messy hair, bohemian freedom.
The next, I’ll reawaken her —
the belle, the woman who makes heads turn,
who doesn’t apologize for the curve of her dress
or the lipstick on her mouth.
I’ll go to museums, cafés, fine restaurants.
I’ll sit, sip, and observe.
I’ll track how I’m treated.
Who approaches.
What version of me they fall for.
The bohemian muse?
The polished belle?
And what I’ve already noticed —
what stirs something in me I still don’t fully understand —
is that it’s always the influential men who look twice.
Not kind men.
Not safe men.
But powerful ones.
And this time,
I won’t feel pity for myself.
I won’t mourn her.
I’ll watch.
I’ll write.
I’ll turn every gaze into data,
every approach into prose.
This is not about vanity.
It’s about visibility.
About reclaiming the story they thought they’d already written.
A story where I test how the world reacts
to the faces it once destroyed.
And where every man who enters my orbit
becomes part of the experiment.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
Great post.
ReplyDeleteI hope those other people see not the just the bohemian or the belle but the human in you too.
You know, oddly enough, I think that’s the last thing most people see. As a woman, people often look at you and ask, ‘How can I use her? What can I take?’ They see pleasure, convenience, decoration—but not a person. Very few, like you, have the capacity to look past the surface and actually see someone. And that ability? That’s rare. Thank you, Mazda.
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