Clothing is my armor. Not the kind of armor that is assigned to everyone who joins a sort of army. It is a kind of armor that is ever evolving—it moves into new territories, goes back to its roots and at times stays stuck in its present. It is the kind of armor that I can shape to fit my mood, the battle and/or the level of “fight” in me.
When they take that from you, strip you bare of your armor, mislabel it as a force of destruction, all you see is a site of destruction. You are left stranded alone in a battlefield, being the only one aware of the war ensuing inside of you.
You are left alone to face the reflection of the once, ever present warrior. When clothing is stripped from you, you either fight louder or crumble into the obscurity of your power.
Maybe those days when we co-sign their de-armoring, is a reminder that we can fall apart. We can rise even when we are the only ones who hear/feel/recognize the battle/destruction.
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