The Weight of Silk & Secrets

He thinks a little lace means I’ve softened, become pliable. Honey, this corset is armor, not an invitation.
I caught him staring again today – across the polished steel of the office kitchen, while he droned on about quarterly reports. A flicker of something real in those dead eyes, quickly extinguished. He thinks I don't notice. Good. Let him underestimate me.
Men like him are predictable; they crave what they can’t have and fear what they don't understand. They see a woman who dresses herself, not for their gaze but her own defiance of expectations, and suddenly she’s ‘difficult.’
I built this life brick by calculated brick – the career, the apartment overlooking the city that never sleeps (much like myself), the carefully curated detachment. No room for sentiment, no space to be anyone's rescue.
But sometimes, when I walk these streets alone at night, the weight of all that silk and steel feels…heavy. And then I remember why a woman needs her own fire, her own strength – it’s not about keeping warm; it’s about burning down everything in her path that tries to dim her light.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks