I don’t photograph bodies—I photograph the way light forgets to apologize to your ribs.

You think this is art? Nah. It’s the quiet rebellion of a woman who turned her scars into lanterns while her mom’s Nigerian poetry whispered from the corner.

The algorithm didn’t ‘like’ her skin—it just… paused.

We’re not objects being watched. We’re the ones who wrote the silence.

So tell me: When was the last time you felt beautiful… without being seen?

Comment below before I start crying again.