The Temple

blood on her face —

not a mark, a decree.

the black crown gleams,

but she does not bow.

she made a commitment to herself —

to treat her body, her soul,

her whole being like a temple.

so she built walls of stone,

cold, sharp, and unbreaking.

only those with clean hands

and honest hearts

may enter.

the rest are left outside,

forever unwelcome.

To All the Hands That Have Touched My Body

There was a time when I believed

touch was the closest thing to love.

Fingers tracing my skin, nails pressing into my back —

I mistook it for intimacy.

But now I know: you never touched me.

Not really.

You touched the surface.

You touched

nerve endings, muscle, and flesh —

the shell I offered you.

But none of you ever touched my heart.

Not because you were incapable,

but because I never gave you the chance.

Back then, I thought power meant control.

If I controlled who touched me,

when, and how,

then maybe

I wouldn't have to feel the ache

of being unseen.

I played the game well.

I invited hands onto my body but

barred them from my soul.

I let people kiss me, undress me,

press their weight against me —

but I never let them inside.

I called it "freedom."

But it wasn’t freedom. It was survival.

I made my body a battlefield

where I always had the upper hand.

If no one could touch my heart,

then no one could break it.

But I was wrong.

I broke it myself.

Every time I allowed

hands on my skin without letting love in,

every time I silenced

my own need for intimacy

and called it "strength,"

I added one more stone

to the wall around my heart.

"Blood on her face —

not a mark, a decree.

The black crown gleams,

but she does not bow."

I was queen of my own emptiness.

I could have stopped at any time,

but I didn’t know how.

How do you stop seeking validation

when the hunger for it lives in your bones?

I forgive myself for that.

I forgive the girl who believed

she could outsmart her own wounds.

She didn’t know that

what goes untouched begins to rot.

No one tells you that.

They tell you to be strong.To be "unbothered."

To be "untouchable."

But untouchable people aren't strong.

They're just lonely in prettier cages.

"She made a commitment to herself —

to treat her body, her soul,

her whole being like a temple.

So she built walls of stone,

cold, sharp, and unbreaking."

I know better now.

Walls aren't the same as boundaries.

Walls keep everyone out.

Boundaries are gates that only open for the worthy.

I’m no longer a fortress of grief.

I’m a temple.

A temple isn’t built to keep

people out forever.

A temple lets light in through stained glass.

A temple allows reverence,

but only from those

with clean hands and honest hearts.

"Only those with clean hands

and honest hearts

may enter.

The rest are left outside,

forever unwelcome."

I don’t hate the hands that touched me.

I don’t even hate myself for letting them.

How could I?

I was still learning what love wasn’t.

I was still learning that being touched

isn’t the same as being seen.

If I could speak to that girl —

the one who let strangers

trace her body like a map —

I wouldn’t scold her.

I wouldn’t shame her.

I would take her face in my hands,

look her in the eye, and tell her:

"You didn’t know.

But now you do."

Because that’s the shift no one talks about.

Not the moment you "get over it.

"Not the day you declare "I deserve better."

The shift happens quietly,

like the first breath after

a long underwater silence.

The shift happens when you decide

that you will no longer

chase love disguised as desire.

I don't need to be untouchable anymore.

I don’t need to be the queen of my own emptiness.

I am not a battlefield, a prize, or a test of endurance.

I am a temple.

And temples do not beg for visitors.

They do not crumble

just because no one enters for a while.

They do not lower their walls

for hands that come

with filth on their fingertips.

I have let too many hands

touch me without touching me at all.

But not anymore.

Because I know this now:

The heart is the truest mark of intimacy.

If you want to touch me, you must

first touch my heart.

And to do that,

you must first show me

that you know how to hold your own.

So to all the hands that have

touched my body —

I release you.

I don’t carry your fingerprints anymore.

I have scrubbed them from my skin.

My body is a temple now,

and I have learned to love it as one.

If you wish to enter,

clean your hands.

Humble your heart.

And knock.

If you are worthy,

you will be welcomed.

If you are not, the gates will not open.

Not because I’m cruel.

Not because I’m closed off.

But because

I love myself enough to choose who gets to come inside.