I refused to be owned.
For the right one, I would—
but if you claim me, you step into covenant, not cage.
If I am yours, you are not “free,”
you are chosen—and I am, too.
My body is not a pastime; it is a temple and a threshold.
You do not wander in here with dirty hands,
split focus, or half‑hearted prayers.
If you touch me, you touch a faith.
If you kiss me, you answer a call.
Love is not a leash,
but it is restraint.
Devotion is not control,
but it is refusal—
refusal to scatter your worship
on a thousand cheap altars
and call that freedom.
I am not here to audition for your attention.
I am not a character in your boredom.
I am the woman you remember
when the room is loud and your drink is full
and there are easier mouths to touch.
If you cannot feel that,
you do not get to feel me.
I have retired from being “the cool girl,”
the “I don’t mind,”
the one who swallows her own ache
so you won’t call her crazy.
I will be the scary one if I have to—
the one who thinks too deeply,
who names the thing out loud,
who would rather walk home alone
than let you make a fool of her altar.
If I am falling, I am going for it.
No halfway worship, no half‑built church.
My heart is for someone who will hold it
with clean hands, steady spine,
and eyes that don’t wander
when the lights come up.
Tonight, I am not hunting; I am summoning.
Those who can’t meet my devotion
will feel it like a closed door.
Those who can will recognize themselves
in the way I carry my body,
the way I guard my joy,
the way I do not abandon my own light
to keep anyone else comfortable.
I refused to be owned.
For the right one, I would.
But I’d have to own too.
And until that one arrives,
I belong to myself
more fiercely than ever.
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