To my Ladies remeber you are loved!!!

My Jezebel Spirit They call her Jezebel like she woke up one day and chose survival as a sin. Like she wasn’t cornered by overdue notices, empty cupboards, and the kind of silence that comes from nobody coming to save you. Jezebel walks in heels that pinch her truth, painted lips that barter time, eyes trained not to flinch when hands forget she’s human. She is a roof payment. She is a light bill. She is gas in the tank and a warm place to sleep when the world says figure it out yourself. But she is not me. She is the armor I zip up when fear starts knocking. She is the voice that negotiates so my softer one doesn’t have to break. She is the body standing in the doorway while my spirit hides behind her whispering, just get through tonight. People think she’s temptation. They think she’s power. They think she’s reckless. They don’t see how she cries in parked cars, how she scrubs her skin like she can wash off the weight of being needed but never known. They don’t see the way she dreams of ordinary things— a sink full of dishes, a couch that remembers her shape, a set of keys that open something permanent. A home on wheels. Not to run, but to finally choose where I land. A tiny kitchen with morning light. My name on the title. No strangers. No bargaining. No pretending my worth is hourly. Just me, breathing without performing. Jezebel is survival, but she is not my identity. She is the bridge I’m walking across. And one day I will step off her shoulders, set the heels down, wipe the paint from my mouth, and meet myself again— not as a secret, not as a service, not as a story told in whispers, but as a woman who made it out, who kept herself alive long enough to build something softer. Something steady. Something that moves because I choose it to— my little home on wheels, my freedom humming beneath me, myo not a transaction, not a disguise, just a life I finally get to live as who I really am.