Stop telling me who I need to be. 

“Empowered,” you say, but only if I wear it your way. 

Red lips, bold stares, loud fists in the air. 

If I whisper, if I sit, am I still enough? 

 

Your “feminism” reeks of rules. 

Be strong, but not too strong. 

Be soft, but not too soft. 

Be everything all at once. 

 

She stays home? “Weak.” 

She climbs ladders? “Aggressive.” 

She loves makeup? “Shallow. 

”She hates it? “Unfeminine.” 

 

You hold us hostage with your scripts, 

Tie our worth to your shifting scale. 

But let me tell you this: 

I am not here to meet your expectations. 

 

I will sit, I will stand, I will run. 

In heels, in flats, in bare feet. 

I will roar or stay silent. 

And I will be free, not by your permission, 

But by my own damn choice. 

 

Don’t call it feminism if it shames my choices. 

If it celebrates only one kind of woman. 

Freedom doesn’t come with conditions. 

And empowerment isn’t yours to give. 

 

I am my own revolution. 

Not your symbol, not your standard. 

My feminism is simple: I do what I want. 

And I’ll haunt the rules you flaunt. 

 

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