Eve was framed and I was born knowing it.

They handed me a story already written in his voice, a garden locked behind shame, a woman blamed for wanting more. They never say Adam refused. Only that Eve reached, like all girls do, for something sweet, something she wasn’t supposed to be. They call it hunger. I call it knowing. I call it the first time a woman dared to ask for more and wasn’t forgiven.

They made a myth out of obedience and still ask us to kneel. Still tell us to lower our voices, fold our hands, cross our legs, and carry the ache like a birthright. To be a woman is to be too much of everything, too loud, too soft, too bare, too brave. We bleed, and they call it dirty. We speak, and they call it rebellion. We survive, and they call it luck.

My body became a battlefield before I knew what war was. Every prayer was an apology. Every dress was a warning. They said modesty was protection, but the wolf still came.

I asked God if He made me in His image, why I felt so wrong in mine. There was no answer. Only silence, and the sharp echo of my own voice learning to sound like a girl worth saving.

They say Eve ruined paradise. But maybe paradise was never safe. Maybe it was just another place a woman had to leave to learn her name.

They call it sin. I call it the beginning.