A woman is born guilty. Not of sin, not of malice, but of the unforgivable act of having a body. Flesh is her first betrayal. Blood, her inheritance.
From the moment she takes breath, the world carves into her. Not with knives, but with words. With expectations. With the quiet, unrelenting demand that she make herself smaller, softer, more digestible. She is taught to fold—her desires, her rage, her hunger—into neat, acceptable shapes. To wear her wounds as ornaments. To call suffering love.
A girl learns early that her body is not hers. It is a thing to be claimed. By fathers, by husbands, by gods who speak through the mouths of men. She is told it is sacred, but sacred only in the way a temple is; meant to be entered, meant to be worshipped in the right light, by the right hands. And when the doors are kicked in, when the altars are defiled, they tell her: This, too, is devotion.
She bleeds, and they call it unclean.
She desires, and they call it weakness.
She rages, and they call it madness.
A woman's body is a crime scene long before any violence is done to it. The evidence is in the way men look at her, like she is both feast and sin. The verdict is in the way she is told to cover, to shrink, to apologize for the space she occupies. The punishment is in the way she learns to hate herself, not for what she's done, but for what she is.
And when she refuses? When she dares to exist unapologetically, to take up room, to howl back at the world that has always demanded her silence? That is when they call her witch. Whore. Monster. That is when they burn her; literally, or slowly, in the quiet cruelty of whispers and sidelong glances.
There is something they will never admit; flesh is not a weakness. It is an accusation. Every scar, every stretch, every unwanted touch etched into her is proof—not of her fragility, but of theirs. They break her bones and call it nature. They spill her blood and call it tradition. They bury her alive inside their myths and call it protection.
A woman is born in flesh because the world needs something to ruin. The blood they spill does not wash away, it stains the earth, and the earth does not forget.
A woman is born in flesh, yes. And the world will try to damn her for it.
But damnation has never stopped a woman from burning.