A Letter Written in My Youth

Dear Society,

 

Why is it that when I look in a mirror, my mind

zooms

            in on

                             my flaws

like a killer?

It looms

on my imperfections more accurate

than lie detections.

 

Why is it that the first compliment

out of every boy’s mouth

is a reflection of my appearance,

like that’s some kind of accomplishment?

Don’t talk about my complexion.

Is my intelligence not coherent

enough

for people to realize

I’m more than the skin that hangs loosely from my bones.

My eyelashes don’t blink as a

flirt to your ego.

Control your hazardous hormones.

 

Why is it that my metabolism is considered

a gift?

Excuse my skepticism as I

drift from

the waters of perfection.

My size is

just a number

and society lies when it

declare its passionate love for

zero.

Because the word

a n o r e x i c

has been vomited so profusely -

it’s as if there was a worldwide flu

epidemic

 

Why is it that if my fingertips

don’t reach the bottom of my shorts,

I’m a slut?

An image

unbearable for society

to see without saying the words

“she’s asking for it” as

I strut down the street,

a vision of impropriety

like my fashion choice is

more important than

my

active

voice.

 

Sincerely,

A young woman

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