I lace up the morning—not with silk, but conviction.
This is no bodice for shrinking. This is armor.
Forged from every “No” not respected,
every law that carved away choice. Steel-threaded with memory:
of mothers and daughters marching, defiant,
of the quiet ones who never got to shout.
Each stitch says:
“You do not own my body.
Equality is not a gift, it is a fight.”