Authenticity—
a deep-rooted stem forcing its way out,
cracking through surface lies,
corroding the outside world’s perception.
A unique stamp.
Signed, sealed, and delivered.
For years, I wrestled with the word.
I claimed authenticity
while performing an edited version of myself.
But my true self—
dogmas erased,
stigmas disintegrated into dust—
emerged, little by little.
Recognition began to cease.
Not everyone knows what to do with someone
who finally stops pretending.
But I stood—
confident like the wind
spinning the arms of a northern windmill
miles from my office window.
Autentik.
Excruciatingly bold.
Authoritative in a way
only soul reflection can permit.
Boundaries carved not from bitterness,
but from truth.
Authenticity is not a fixed trait.
It’s built. Broken. Rebuilt.
Unfiltered.
And if I had to wear one outfit forever,
I would still choose me.
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