This Body Is Not an Apology

This body,

soft like the lull before a storm,

has stood trial

in rooms where silence was the judge

and shame the jury.

It has been weighed like meat.

Measured like sin.

Shamed like a secret.

This body—

round, wrinkled, dimpled, defiant—

has never asked for forgiveness.

Only room.

It is not an apology

for how it stretches.

How it scars.

How it survives.

This voice,

raised one decibel too high

for comfort,

has been called loud

when it was only

clear.

Called angry

when it was only

honest.

They taught us to whisper,

and then blamed us

for being unheard.

This rage

is not a problem.

It is proof.

It is every no

we weren’t allowed to say

now roaring in unison.

It is every hand slapped away,

every wage stolen,

every “calm down”

that only stoked the fire.

We do not rage without reason.

We rage because the reason

has outgrown the room.

This love

is not fragile.

It is forged.

It does not ask “am I too much?”

It asks,

why do you expect me to shrink

to fit your comfort?

We have kissed women

with chipped nail polish

and laughter like thunder.

We have held queer joy in the daylight,

unashamed.

We have mothered without giving birth,

bled without weakness,

grieved in the open.

This feminism

is not a phase.

Not a brand.

Not a curated feed.

It is messy.

Contradictory.

Tender in the morning

and militant by midnight.

It makes mistakes,

then makes amends.

It is learning,

unlearning,

relearning.

It is not perfect.

But it is moving.

Always moving.

This poem

will not end with a bow.

It will end with a door

—open.

For the ones who come next:

bring your anger.

Bring your softness.

Bring your body.

Bring your grief.

Bring your joy.

We are not waiting to be saved.

We are the rescue.

And this—

this fire,

this fight,

this freedom—

is ours.