Cover yourself," they hiss,

Each thread a prison bar,

Each seam a shackle.

Not even ankles dare whisper

Their existence to the wind.

These commandments of shame,

Branded into generations—

Not with iron, but with whispers,

Deadlier than any flame,

Deeper than any scar.

We've forgotten our first skin,

Trading truth for textile temples:

Silk shrouds and cotton coffins,

Wool masks and leather lies,

All in the name of virtue.

Protection turned to prison,

Freedom caged in fashion's name.

Each stretch mark tells a story,

Each wrinkle maps a journey,

Each scar sings of survival.

Once we danced with stars,

Wore moonlight as our cloak,

Dawn's dew our only jewels.

Now we shuffle in shadows,

Draped in society's fear.

"Deviant," they brand the free,

"Harlot," they label truth,

These medieval echoes still ring

Through climate-controlled halls

Where we hide from ourselves.

The greatest theft:

Not gold, not land—

But the right to exist

In our own skin,

Under our own sky.