I Don’t Put One On When I Leave the House
I don’t put one on when I leave the house. No jacket to shield me, no mask to soften the edges. No armor, no apology. Just skin, scent, and the kind of gaze that doesn’t ask permission. I step out as I am—unfiltered, uncurated, and entirely deliberate.
The world expects layers. It expects camouflage. It expects you to tuck yourself in, to zip up your wildness and button down your truth. But I’ve never been good at playing dress-up for the sake of comfort. I wear what speaks, not what soothes. And some days, that means wearing nothing but intent.
See the comments for more pics, they say. But the real story isn’t in the pixels—it’s in the pulse. It’s in the way the light hits my collarbone like a signature. It’s in the way my shadow stretches longer than my body, like it’s trying to outrun the past. It’s in the way I walk—not fast, not slow, but like I know exactly where I’m going, even if I don’t.
I live in a city that hums with contradiction. The streets are lined with temples and tuk-tuks, with incense and exhaust. Tourists chase enlightenment while locals chase lunch. And I move through it all like a ghost with a heartbeat. I don’t belong here, not exactly—but I’ve made a home in the spaces between.
There’s a flower stall near the corner of Street 9. The woman who runs it never smiles, but she always gives me the freshest blooms. I think she sees something in me—something that doesn’t need translation. I name the flowers as I walk: one is called “Refusal,” another “Yesterday’s Echo.” I tuck them into my bag like talismans, like proof that beauty can be claimed without permission.
I pass a mirror in a shop window and catch my reflection. Not to admire, but to confirm. Am I still here? Still visible? Still choosing this version of myself over the one they tried to sell me? The answer is always yes. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
There’s a car parked outside the café I like. It’s old, rusted in places, but the chrome still catches the sun like it remembers being worshipped. I’ve named it “The Oracle.” It doesn’t move much, but I swear it watches. I leave notes under its windshield wipers sometimes—poems, confessions, fragments of dreams. I don’t know who reads them. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone.
Inside the café, the barista knows my order before I speak. Black coffee, no sugar. Bitterness suits me. I sit by the window and watch the world unfold like a slow-motion film. A child drops a toy. A monk adjusts his robe. A couple argues in whispers. And me—I write. Not with a pen, but with presence. Every glance, every breath, every refusal to conform is a sentence in my story.
Someone once told me I should smile more. That I’d be prettier. I laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was absurd. My beauty isn’t in my smile. It’s in my stance. It’s in the way I occupy space without shrinking. It’s in the way I name things—cars, flowers, moments—and make them mine.
I don’t put one on when I leave the house. No filter, no façade. Just the truth, dressed in defiance. And yes, sometimes that truth is messy. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it makes people uncomfortable. But it’s mine. And I wear it like a crown.
Later, I walk through the market. The air is thick with spice and sweat. Vendors call out, trying to sell me things I don’t need. I smile at one—a boy selling handmade bracelets. He asks if I want one. I say no, but I admire the colors. He tells me each one has a name. I ask him to name one after me. He thinks for a moment, then says, “Fire without smoke.” I buy it.
Back home, I hang the bracelet on my wall. Next to a photo of my grandmother, who taught me how to walk like I meant it. Next to a dried flower I once wore in my hair. Next to a note I wrote to myself: You are not here to be palatable.
I scroll through the comments. Some are kind. Some are cruel. Some are confused. But none of them change the story. Because the story isn’t in the likes or the shares. It’s in the living. It’s in the leaving. It’s in the refusal to put one on.
So here’s the full story, in case you missed it:
I am not a brand. I am not a trend. I am not a moment curated for engagement. I am a legacy in motion. A myth with a heartbeat. A poem that walks.
And when I leave the house, I do so bare-faced and bold. Because the world doesn’t need another mask. It needs someone who dares to be seen.
