I remember the time I was treated like a Medici. I was drunk on holding hands and the air tasted like Sunday. The world told me I was its Pope and my nuns found it witchy. And when life cultivates lemons, you learn to make it some way. But, when you raise your hemlines, the world’s your gynecologist. Because your skirt is your worth when you climb the gilded ladder. Your prayer has to be your voice, your desire, your defence, your fist. I learned it all when I feasted with panthers and grew fatter.