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