She cut her hair short.
Not because she had nothing to hide.
Because she had nothing that needed hiding.
She had already become a wilderness.
The slope behind her head
was a quiet rebellion against symmetry.
A reminder that mountains
were never designed to apologise for their peaks.
A strand fell diagonally across her eyebrows, across her eyes,
like even her own face needed a curtain to survive the violence of being looked at.
The universe tried to cover her. Failed.
The septum ring was not jewellery.
It was a warning.
A small piece of metal declaring:
"I have already made peace with pain.
Do not arrive with your knives and call them wounds."
Her lips were arrows.
Not the kind
that ask permission before finding their target.
The kind that make kingdoms surrender
and leave generations wondering
why they built walls
around something they could never contain.
Her curves were not decoration.
They were geography.
A landscape men had spent centuries trying to map,
forgetting that some terrains exist
only to remind explorers how little they understand the earth.
And beneath all the poetry,
beneath every metaphor a desperate mind invents to possess what it admires,
was wilderness.
Untamed.
Unclaimed.
A place where nature itself had refused to build roads.
Because not everything beautiful was created
to be reached.
The metal shards piercing
through her burnt sienna blossoms
were not ornaments.
They were a flag planted in a territory
that had already declared independence.
The wild ferns she kept hidden
between her thighs
were not a florist's exhibition.
They were proof that even nature
refuses to grow according to someone else's map.
They were a forest refusing to become a bouquet.
They were a declaration carved in flesh:
"This body is not a museum for other people's opinions.
It is a country.
And I am the only government it recognises."
She had looked at the body the world handed her,
with all its evidence of survival,
and instead of asking for permission, she owned it.
She did not decorate herself.
She authored herself.
That was the most dangerous thing about her.
Not the eyes. Not the lips.
Not the silhouette that made rooms forget what they were discussing.
It was the knowledge.
She knew.
She knew forests attract fires.
She knew oceans attract drowning.
She knew anything powerful enough to be desired
would eventually be mistaken for something conquerable.
She was not a muse.
Muses exist to be remembered.
She was something older.
Something before language discovered admiration.
A forest does not care who writes poems about trees.
It does not bloom to be called beautiful.
It simply grows.
And that was the terror of her.
She was never waiting to be seen.
She was the wilderness
that existed long before anyone arrived
with a language small enough to misunderstand it.
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