Smeared Eyeliner and Open Thighs: The True Face of Victory

Smeared Eyeliner and Open Thighs:

The True Face of Victory

I didn’t win politely.

I won leaking heat.

I won with eyeliner dragged south by sweat and truth,

with thighs open like a challenge,

like a dare the world didn’t know it accepted.

Victory didn’t clap for me—

she bit her lip.

She leaned in close,

smelled the aftermath on my skin,

and said good… you finally stopped behaving.

I am not the girl who survived quietly.

I survived loud in my body,

hips remembering every almost-yes,

every no that tasted like power

when I finally learned how to spit it.

I learned seduction is not about touch—

it’s about withholding.

About the slow grin when you know

they want something you already own.

About standing there unashamed,

letting the wanting do the work.

My legs know geometry men fear.

My spine curves with intent.

My mouth doesn’t beg—

it invites, then decides.

I rhyme with don’t get comfortable.

I rhyme with watch your pulse.

I rhyme with you thought I was broken—

turns out I was sharpening.

There is filth in my holiness.

There is prayer in my grind.

I made an altar out of bad decisions

and kneeled only long enough

to remember how good it feels

to rise slowly, deliberately,

with my balance restored and my appetite intact.

I don’t blush—I glow darker.

I don’t chase—I orbit.

I don’t need permission

to take up this much room

with my heat, my stare, my silence

that sounds like come closer if you dare.

They wanted me neat.

I became dangerous.

They wanted forgiveness.

I chose precision.

My eyeliner runs because restraint did too.

Because desire does not like cages.

Because some victories require

a body that refuses to sit still,

a soul that hums low and satisfied,

a mind sharp enough to smile

while everything else trembles.

This is not shame—

this is strategy.

This is knowing exactly what I’m doing

when I cross my legs slow

and uncross them slower.

This is cunning wrapped in skin.

This is power dressed as pleasure.

This is sexuality that doesn’t ask

to be consumed—

it selects.

So when you ask what winning looks like—

don’t look for clean lines or calm breathing.

Look for smeared proof.

Open stances.

A woman still hungry,

still laughing,

still in control of the room

without raising her voice.

This—

this is the true face of victory.

Breathing hard.

Eyes bright.

Body unapologetically aware

of exactly how much damage

it can do

by simply standing there.