Soulpunk Softwear
- El Amethyst
- May 3
- 2 min read
A visual and emotional journal in threads
“I don’t follow fashion. I forge it.”— Me, wrapped in memory, stitched in truth.
There are days when my body aches to speak without words.
Days when the mirror isn’t just glass — it’s a portal, a page, a confession booth.
And so I dress myself in story.
I call it Soulpunk Softwear —not quite armour, not quite costume.
A wearable rebellion. A stitched-together truth.
Something between softness and stance. Between glitter and grief.
I dress in declarations.
Not to impress, but to confess.
Every thread on my skin is a soft-screamed prayer,
a whisper to the world:
I survived. I’m still here. I glitter with scars.
Corduroy courage on city glass towers.
Patchwork rebellion stitched under moonlight.
I wear comic prints like warpaint—
a riot of colour saying:
you won’t grey me out.
Some days I bloom in mustard yellows.
Some days I let a vest carry the quiet when words don’t come.
Soft knits hug the ache I can’t explain.
Rainbow cuffs catch tears before they fall.
I lace up my boots like I’m gearing for battle—
but it’s not violence I’m ready for.
It’s joy — raw and unfiltered.
The kind that kisses trees.
That photographs pain into light.
That walks until the grief lets go of your hand.
Camouflage in pink?
That’s armour for my gentle.
A yellow dress on stairs?
That’s the sun I swallowed whole
and made my own.
I drink coffee in quiet spells.
I read revolution in paperback.
I let my body speak in comfort
what my lips once locked away.
Every outfit is a love note—
to the ones who never made it,
to the parts of me I almost left behind,
to the future me who needed proof
that softness is a weapon too.
So call me Soulpunk.
Not for chaos. For clarity.
For choosing colour over cruelty,
layers over lies,
truth over trend.
Softwear, not software.
This isn’t an update.
It’s a resurrection.
Photos: Taken by me, or for me. And maybe for the kid I used to be,
who needed to see someone like this — standing in their truth.
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