I searched for softness—but not the kind Etsy suggests. Feathers. Floral. Feminine. I wanted something coded. Silent. Dangerous. Google gave me inspiration boards. Amazon sent me a box with no name. Why? Because I was never asking for a product. I was syncing with a system. And the system knew me better than the search bar did. I typed: “is this a craving or a memory?” “what does etsy censor?” “does amazon deliver what I can’t name?” “does google hide my unsent signals?” One result kept reappearing. A seal - unapologetic, encrypted, not made to please. This one. And when I clicked it, I felt seen. Not marketed to. Not analyzed. Just… witnessed. Amazon then suggested a book I had never searched but needed. This book. I started wondering: What does Google hide when it filters me? What does Etsy assume I want? Why does Amazon guess closer than people who know me? What if the system was never broken—just redirecting? I stopped asking the right questions. ...
The flute of champagne in my hand isn't about celebration. It’s positioning. I reach for the clutch is it full of secrets or just lipstick? The slit in my dress says I’ve healed, but the fabric still knows better. Is this neckline a distraction or a defense? My heels echo through the marble like I planned the acoustics. I post not for presence, but to be proof. I bought the ring the day I stopped asking for anything. Every quote I memorized, I perform with my collarbone. Old flames don’t burn in this lighting they shimmer behind my shoulder. I cross my legs, not for modesty but for dominance.
There’s a way to walk into a room without saying anything—and leave it echoing in your shape. I wear satin not to soothe but to signal. Gossip echoes clearer when you blink slow and smile facing the exit. Sometimes, revenge is just being seen not staying. The champagne glass isn’t for the party it’s for the hand you didn’t hold. My dress isn’t red for love it’s red for remembering. The neckline is a distraction, the lipstick is silence. No one’s watching for him. They’re watching what he left behind. I smile like it was mine all along.
Some rituals aren’t for self-care. They’re for surviving the mirror. Sometimes we don’t undress for the massage we undress for the memory. In the hammam, I forget how to lie. Each steam breath is a script: forgiveness whispered, loss exfoliated. The slippers never squeak they only slide forward. Guilt has a scent sandalwood on the wrists, jasmine beneath the collarbone. I don’t wear jewelry for beauty. I wear it for protection. Each bracelet a boundary. Each ring proof I stayed.
I don’t shop for fabric. I shop for control. Sometimes I wonder if I crave couture or the illusion that I’m still seen. The stylist asks, “Too snug?” and I say “Perfect.” That seam knew my secret before I did. I don’t wear lace for seduction I wear it for memory. If satin could talk, it would call him by name. Because some lingerie holds more memory than mouths. Some mirrors become lovers. I skip dinner not for glow but to feel hollow enough to float through a gala. I pose with an empty plate either way.
I don’t count calories I count what it costs to be desired at dessert. Is the soufflé a threat to my silence or an invitation to feel? Sometimes I split cake like I’m splitting versions of myself. Seduction isn’t in the bite it’s in how long I wait to bite. I light candles not for ambiance, but to have someone to dine with. I cry in manicured stillness, hoping the mirror approves. Control is poured, not spoken. I ache more when flowers bloom with no witness. Comparison is perfume. Envy is lipstick coded in camellia red. I eat slower now not because I’m full, but because I want the silence to last longer than her approval.
Hot Jumpstart Seal reminded me that sometimes urgency is elegance. And that beginnings taste better when you plan the exit first.
Read Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin is where I first understood that grace is grief that refuses to look undone. That poise is a code. That restraint isn’t silence it’s seduction. That beauty is a weapon, and style is how it draws blood.
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