Growing up, I always had an issue with "ideal girls."
Girls we're mean, girls were vain.
Girls gossiped, girls were insane.
Girls made fun, girls stole your boyfriend.
Girls walked away after promising, "Besties til the end!"
Girls hated pimples, girls loved nails.
Girls wore pink, wrote notes and left makeup trails.
I so ignorantly fell into this presumption of girls.
Borrowed my sisters bras in middle school all because I wanted to be the next cup size,
stuffed my stomach underneath the waistline of my pants so a size too small looked like it fit right.
Never dared to smile in photos because my teeth weren't straight,
covered up my scars with concealer so they didn't recognize the hate
I had for myself.
Twelve years old and can't stand her reflection,
wiping vomit from her mouth, pulling it together so they do not question,
"How are you getting so skinny?!"
Like I'm an acrobat in the circus of appeal, finally amounting up to the "ideal girl" at the cost of my own life.
When did beauty become a flower covered casket-
needle syringes, scalpels, plastic surgery prices in baskets?
"Would you like a catalog of all the ways to be approved,
none of which is the natural form of you?"
Barely a teenager believing a compliment to be "NICE ASS" rather than "beautiful soul."
And so I cowered away into a hole
Hid my face from a world of opportunities,
all because I did not fit into this distorted, flawed, crooked box of the "ideal girl."
I watched men feast on women like raw meat only good for two things:
Number One: Show the amount of cleavage that I want to see.
Number Two: Make me a sandwich.
This prompted me to develop into a young lady whose only purpose was to fill the desires of empty boys,
letting them use me as if I were an old toy
they loved for a while then tossed away for a more alluring one.
And all I had left was a broken heart and the wrapper of a filthy condom,
convincing me that attraction would
only be felt through groping hands on breasts and never entangled in the essence of a creative mind.
This was the "ideal girl."
More than anything I wanted to be the ideal girl,
until I had painted my face to the extent that I didn't recognize myself,
threw away dinner until skinniness became skeletal,
and gave my virginity to a boy who only wanted a fun and easy ride but considered that love.
I forgot to compliment the girl, fuzzy hair and bad complexion, in the mornings.
I forgot to enjoy a damn good cheeseburger- add extra bacon and pile on the mayo.
I forgot to cherish my body and sexuality, but to never be an object of a man's pleasure because I am much more than a pile of flesh only designated to satisfy lust.
I forgot to realize that there is a girl who never needed any of society's poison disguised as remedies,
because everything she is is beyond the constraints of the "ideal girl."
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: