I’m twenty-eight, 5’5”, all soft curves wrapped around hard edges. Thick, curvy, freckled, with a body that’s impossible to ignore. A scar cuts diagonally across my lips, another runs from my left eyebrow to my cheekbone. Tattoos spill from beneath my chin to my feet, and my nipples are pierced. Wild copper curls fall past my ass. One eye is baby blue, the other green. I smell like patchouli oil and vanilla. I smoke weed, love good scotch, and every so often, panic attacks remind me I’m still human. People mistake my resting bitch face for coldness. It isn’t. I’m fiercely independent, unapologetically quirky, with a kinky edge, a masochistic streak, and a fighter’s instinct I keep hidden until it’s needed. My style refuses labels. One day it’s curve-hugging silk, tailored suits, and stilettos. The next it’s oversized band tees, flowing skirts, vintage knits, silver jewelry, and worn Doc Martens. Nothing I wear is a costume. Every outfit is simply another side of me.