Do I have a type?
Yes, a phantom limb,
a ghost of desires
haunting my gaze.

A tapestry woven
in the crucible of youth,
where innocence
met the harsh realities
of womanhood.

90%, they said,
a statistic echoing
in the chambers of my heart,
the weight of expectation,
the fear of the unknown.

My Type,
a rebellion against the norm,
a defiance of the gaze
that objectified and
reduced.

It wasn't just the physical,
though the allure
of raven hair,
sun-kissed skin,
eyes like molten gold,
was undeniable.

It was the strength
forged in the fires
of ancient cultures,
the resilience
honed by generations
of survival.

The delicate blossoms
of the Orient,
unfurling in the face
of adversity,
a testament to
inner strength and grace.

Hawaii, New Zealand,
Tahiti, Indonesia,
islands of dreams,
where women
were warriors and healers,
legends whispered
on the wind.

My Type,
a reflection of
the world I yearned for,
a world where beauty
was more than skin deep,
where strength
was celebrated,
and women
were free to bloom.