You were not meant to be corrected. You were born just perfectly, under reckless suns and pulling moons. Long before they taught you to soften, your body already knew how to speak without being taught a thing - it doesn’t need their confirmation.

They call it excess because they no longer recognise how someone looks unbroken, unconditioned. Your body does not perform. It bears witness.

Every hair is a magic sigil. Every scar a remembered rite. Nothing on you is accidental. Nothing is decorative. All of it is you and you? Is more than enough.

They tried to wax off the spell from you. To cleanse you of instinct. To make you safe to look at, small and gentle and fitting their family photo.

Do not comply.

What grows in you is older than shame. Older than law. Older than the gods they allow you to worship. Nature does not ask to be forgiven. Desire does not kneel to be justified. You are divine exactly where they flinch, where flesh remains unedited, where hunger stays visible, where obedience was never an option.

Remain unsimplified.

Let them tremble in unease when they see you - not fear of you, but fear of what awakens in them  when they realise they can’t control you, that you did jot come to cater. Do not translate yourself into something harmless. They want your quiet because silence is easier to govern than truth and whispers are so much softer than a roar. A tamed body is permitted. An untamed one is a breach. A breach that changes the room Just by existing.

You are not excessive. You are unsealed. You carry the old heat.

The feral law.

A memory civilisation failed to kill. This is not a flaw. It is not rebellion.

It is just how you are meant to be.

And I adore you, just like that.