Photo by Mukul Kumar on Unsplash
My body is not your battleground.
It never asked to be. It never volunteered. And yet, from the first time a Sunday school teacher side-eyed my hips swaying during praise and worship, to the woman who said “long dresses don’t make you a saint” like it was a warning — my flesh has been fighting a war it didn’t declare.
I wear long bodycons to the club — clinging, commanding, thigh-high slits slicing through modesty like a threat. I love my sundresses, my market-wife couture. Cotton prints that flutter like virtue but cling like sin. I dress like a sermon someone might moan through. Like a scandal waiting for a camera flash. Like a mother who’s also a mistress. One time, a friend looked me up and down and said I looked like I had a husband, two kids, and a grocery list. As if softness negates wildness. As if womanhood must always choose between the domestic and the decadent. As if I haven’t already chosen both, again and again, with lipstick-stained certainty.
Another time, after a pool party, a girl — a friend of a friend — squinted at me in my sundress and said, “Long dresses don’t make you a saint.”
And I laughed. Because I never claimed sainthood. I only claimed style. I only claimed the right to be both gospel and gossip. To dress like I’m headed to the farmer’s market but end the night twerking on tables in another country’s time zone. My body tells two stories in parallel: one in cotton and one in curve. One in silence, the other in sway. And if you’re lucky, you get to read both before I vanish.
But even when I cover myself — especially when I cover myself — the eyes don’t stop. The assumptions don’t soften. The judgments just mutate, dress up in different scripture. A long skirt makes them think I’m modest. A backless top makes them think I’m asking for it. A hijab makes them political. A crop top makes me reckless. My body is fluent in controversy. No matter what I wear, someone finds a war in it.
I know what it means to wear long sleeves and still feel exposed. To be covered but never safe. To be silent but still read out loud.
Because my body? My body has never been quiet.
It has always been a conversation starter, even when I wanted to disappear. It has always been political, even when I begged it not to be. I wanted to be a girl. They made me a spectacle. I wanted to be soft. They made me symbolic. I wanted to be touched with kindness. They touched me with expectations, with shame, with the stinging slap of doctrine and decency and don’t-you-dare-say-that-out-loud.
And yet, desire — desire is the one thing they could never fully take from me. Even when they tried to rename it.
They told me modesty was holy, and desire was a demon. That wanting was wicked. That covering up made me worthy. That “good girls” were pure, and pure meant quiet, and quiet meant untouched. But I was never untouched. I was handled. I was hushed. I was hidden.
And I still burned.
Desire doesn’t disappear when you cover it. It ferments. It grows teeth and poetry. It starts to whisper in metaphors. I think with my mouth, ache with my mind, and narrate every touch like it’s a philosophical event. Desire isn’t something I feel — it’s something I study, suffer, and seduce through language. Every line I write is a liturgy. Every outfit is a contradiction. Every sigh is a theory. I’ve been called a nun and a whore in the same weekend — by people who can’t decide if I should be punished or praised for knowing how to walk like a prayer that’s been answered too loudly.
Sometimes, I feel like my body is a border post. Everyone wants to stamp their opinion on it. Your skirt’s too short. Your neckline is too deep. You’re distracting. You’re trying too hard. You’re not trying hard enough. You're respectable. You're wild. You're confusing.
Good. Be confused. My body isn’t here to clarify your chaos. It’s here to embody mine.
There’s a certain thrill in knowing I can walk into a room in a modest dress and still make mouths water. That I can cover every inch of skin and still feel like a striptease. That I can blush and bite my lip and still carry the power of a woman who knows her body is not for public debate. Not for policing. Not for pleasing others. My modesty is mine. My desire is mine. They are not opposing forces — they are sisters, holding hands under the table, laughing at the people who think they must fight.
Modesty, for me, is not submission. It's a strategy. It’s poetry. It’s the velvet glove over a clenched fist. It’s power that doesn’t need to scream to be felt. It’s control in a world that keeps trying to take it from me. I am not less sensual when I’m covered. If anything, I’m more dangerous. Because you don’t get to devour what you cannot decode.
I’ve learned that modesty can be a weapon. A protest. A boundary drawn in lipstick and hemline. I’ve also learned that sometimes, the sexiest thing you can do is say no. Or not yet. Or not for you. Or not everything needs to be seen to be felt.
So no — long dresses don’t make me a saint. But neither do they make me a coward. They make me complicated. They make me mine.
My body is not your battleground.
It’s my altar.
My archive.
My rebellion wrapped in fabric.
My story — sometimes whispered, sometimes shouted — always mine.
No matter what I wear, someone finds a war in it!!!! 🙌😪....I loved this one😭😭🤏
Wow!!!