The real in us is not flawless.
It’s not polite.
It’s not always pretty.
It’s the strength we found when no one was watching.
It’s the quiet resilience that carried us through nights we didn’t think we’d survive.
It’s the joy that bursts through even after the heaviest rain.
We’ve been told who to be, how to move, what to want.
We’ve smiled when we wanted to scream.
We’ve made elegance look effortless when it cost everything.
But the real in us is more than survival — it’s the refusal to live without beauty, without desire, without the thrill of our own presence.
We claim space.
We dress for ourselves.
We wear scent like armour, not to hide, but to announce: we are here.
We are contradiction in motion — soft yet unyielding, graceful yet untamed, deliberate yet wild.
We belong to no one but ourselves.
The real in us cannot be bought.
It cannot be owned.
It can only be lived.
