But, At What Cost?

I used to see them—

girls my age, fresh in their twenties,

spending money they didn’t earn

like water with some to spare.

Hair, nails, and outfits on point.

Driving cars with tanks they never filled.

Free as birds,

fluttering from tree to tree,

catching up on the latest gossip over brunches they didn’t pay for.

Kept by men.

Sometimes one.

Sometimes more than one.

Some they reportedly didn’t even have to sleep with.

And I thought—

I’m cute.

I could do that.

I deserve that freedom too.

And then my soul whispers,

“But, at what cost?”

I could spend my late nights

and even some early mornings

standing near giant speakers,

sound waves crashing through me,

energizing me—

to dance with a man I just met,

pretending I enjoy the taste of

bitter and acid.

But, at what cost?

I could script and rehearse my words like monologues

Stand just right

to catch the best light.

Hair perfectly in place.

Nail colors to match every season.

Lean into charm.

Turn my smile into currency.

Read every room

like a market

and decide who I need to be today.

I could borrow comfort

even when it comes with strings,

even when the fine print

is printed on skin.

But, at what cost?

I could be kept,

but never still.

Seen,

but never truly known.

Chosen,

but never really safe.

But, at what cost?

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