The Boss
The weight of the blazer settles across her shoulders like a final seal.
She adjusts the lapel, aligns the cuffs, and rolls her shoulders once to set it in place. The line of her silhouette sharpens.
Chin lifts, mouth smirks, and eyes glint.
There—done.
That is the part no one sees.
They see the blazer.
They see the shoes she chose to signal dominance.
They see her quick, fiery eyes.
What no one sees is that she puts this on. It doesn’t grow out of her. It doesn’t cling to her bones by nature.
She chooses it. Every morning.
She built it.
And she wears it better than anyone else because it’s not born of ego—it’s born of care. Of the knowledge that authority can either protect or destroy. And she’s spent too much of her life being destroyed to question which side she must stand on.
She sees the version of herself in the mirror others resent. Too sharp, too polished, too cold. She sees something different.
A woman who knows exactly what she's doing.
A woman who bends steel into infrastructure, not into barriers.
A woman who tells the truth when it matters and stays silent when it doesn’t serve.
She buttons just one button. Leaves the rest open. It’s not armor. It’s a costume. And she plays the role passionately.
She breathes in; steadies.
Let the world call her a bitch.
Let them say she’s intimidating.
Let them think she was born with that swaggar.
She’ll know the truth.
That this—this perfectly controlled mask—isn’t a prison or a shield.
It’s a performance to provide service.
