Every button, every pearl, every camellia placed just to remind you who the hell you’re looking at. The hat? disrespectful. The stare? criminal. smile? not necessary when the outfit speaks fluently in dominance. I didn’t attend the met, i conquered it. Choke on the tailoring.
Showed up like a scandal wrapped in silk and pearls—dripping chanel, draped in power, and dressed like i just closed the deal and stole your man. Pants under a skirt? that’s called fashion warfare, baby.
The wise Doechii once said :
Wake up, A-cup, get your tits sucked
In my makeup, face-fuck, get your bake up
Fake bluff, fake tough, n$$$$ dick suck
Put your sticks up for the motherfuckin’ princess
Rates up, jig’s up, put your dicks up
For the pause you take before liking it. For the ex that still watches, and the girl who swore she didn’t care. Name’s on the top. Stare like you’re reading scripture.
Red trim sharp enough to cut, black fabric tight enough to pray for. 2000 Archives knew the assignment: make it cling, make it bite, make it hers. I don’t wear logos. I am the logo. This wasn’t for the pool. This was for the flash. For the sweat.
Black like silence before I speak. Red like the part of your mind you try to keep quiet when you see me. This bikini? Not just swimwear. It's armor dipped in lipstick — stitched in heat and signed with my name so you don’t forget who made you look twice. Custom, of course.
Rep " Hello " and I'll tell you what I love the most from your acc:
⌗ I adore your whole setup.
⌗ I'm in love with your @
⌗ I like your tweets.
⌗ I like your nick.