a woman or concept?

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men have called me many things.

“mysterious”

“inscrutable”

“interesting”

“pure”

words that once landed softly in my chest like petals—compliments, i thought. markers of something special. words to be proud of. i wore them like a ribbon in my hair, not knowing they were a leash.

but as my mind sharpened, as my voice deepened with years, i began to understand:

they weren’t seeing me.

they were seeing a concept.

a projection.

a silhouette.

a paper doll cut from longing and fantasy.

they didn‘t see me—they fell in love with their own idea of who i was.

and the second i spoke too loudly,

the moment my laughter sounded too real,

when i revealed anger, desire, sadness,

when i bled or burned or bit back—

they flinched.

they recoiled from the heat of my humanness.

it‘s not mystery they wanted.

it‘s silence.

not purity—obedience.

their version of “pure” is a woman untouched not by hands but by opinion.

by desire.

by life.

but i am not a thing to be studied from afar.

i am not a porcelain girl behind glass.

i am not soft for the sake of being palatable.

i am soil and thorn and wildfire.

i am flesh and voice and contradiction.

i am tired of being consumed like an idea.

i want someone who doesn’t blink when i break the frame.

who sees the whole of me: the blood under the fingernails, the depth in my laugh, the sharpness in my eyes when i‘m tired of being sweet.

someone who doesn’t get overwhelmed when i drop the veil.

i want to be loved not for the myth of me but the me that lives.

the me with salt on her lips,

ink on her fingers,

shadows under her eyes from dreaming too hard.

i don’t want to be an idea.

i want to be real—and still loved.

— Lux