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.”