She doesn’t ask permission,
she is the permission.
A wrist wrapped in studs,
a throat ringed in chain,
she leans into silence
like it owes her tribute.

One glove, mesh-veined,
catches the light
like a net cast for truth or trouble,
whichever bites first.

Her gaze?
Not invitation.
Not challenge.
Just gravity,
and you’re already falling.

She wears stillness
like a blade wears polish,
not for show,
but for the moment
you forget it cuts.

Bracelets clink like prophecy,
each pyramid a vow:
to never shrink,
to never soften,
to never be mistaken
for anything but sovereign.

She is the pause
before the bass drops,
the breath held
before the altar breaks.

And if you speak,
make it poetry.
She only listens
to what dares to echo.