Today, I wore my yellow skirt, tribal marks, and a vengeance prayer.
It’s a killer combo.
The kind of look that says: “The blood still speaks, and so does my lip gloss.”
I was trying to channel deliverance girl, but make it sexy. Like if MFM had a runway show and Naomi Campbell was doing the closing walk.
Somewhere between my childhood church and a TikTok filter, I found myself in the mirror thinking — “What if healing is actually just spiritual cosplay with better lighting?”
Today’s fit was therapy. But make it fashion. But also make it delusion.
Because why else am I fighting battles with a mini skirt and a matching psalm?
Who told me this was the day I’d finally bump into him? Or her? Or them? Or the version of myself I left in 2018?
I tied my gele with generational ambition. Lined my eyes with ancestral spite. Drenched myself in oil — the prayer kind, and the Fenty one.
But no one noticed. Not the tailor I walked past. Not the neighbor’s dog. Not even heaven.
Still, I strutted like God had personally booked the runway.
Because sometimes, your outfit is the only part of your spirit that shows up.
Sometimes, performance is prayer in disguise.
And even if no one claps, at least you looked cute while breaking the curse.
The deeper cultural contradiction? We’re the generation that left church but took all the trauma, wrapped it in aesthetics, and called it healing.
We won’t kneel to pray, but we’ll slay to manifest.
We grew up being told to ‘cover up’ to be holy — now we dress like vengeance in heels and call it divine.
And maybe it is.
Because sometimes therapy doesn’t look like journaling. It looks like putting on a yellow skirt, tribal marks, and a vengeance prayer — and daring the world to look away.
That’s the real altar call.
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