Thu, 11/13/2014 - 19:09 -- noelknd
They say that girls are made of curves -
that we are smiles
and acceptance,
a circle of understanding arms,
our feminine charms meant to lure you in:
a siren call.
That we feed on laughter
and sunshine
and I’m convinced that's why
so many girls have stopped eating,
giving into the lies
we've been told since infancy:
that we are more plants
than people
that if there's less of us
there will be more to love;
that if we fit into the cabinet beneath your chin
we will finally be enough -
But I am no damsel in distress.
I am not a fifties' housewife.
I have dreams,
a vision for my life
that will never fall into your outdated stereotypes.
But I have still grown up in an age of 
Disney princesses and
"size zero is perfect" and
even the mannequins are pinky-width,
but I don't understand this obsession with
ribcages and collarbones.
Why is starving to death 
a monstrosity in third world countries
But a work of art at home?
And yet I, too, used to dine on your voice.
I used to feast on compliments.
I used to claw myself to sleep,
praying I'd be enough to keep
your attentions.
I spent too many years in bathroom stalls
heaving up my sin,
dying to be thin,
but no one looks at a puddle 
and mistakes it for an ocean -
I want to be a force.
I want to be awe inspiring.
I want to be painstakingly - 
I want to be beautiful.
I still want to be beautiful.
Every day is a battle with my reflection.
Every day is a battle with "perfection.”
Every day is a battle with the imperfect sections
of my body.
But I am no longer satisfied 
with sugar-coated moonlight and requiems.
I do not crave the stars because 
I am one of them.
I am brilliant,
and volatile,
and vivid,
and I am not dimmed by the way you view my secrets.
I am no longer afraid to see my figure 
stretched across the sidewalk
like colored chalk -
I am made of colors.
Call me ugly
and I will paint you a portrait of my insecurities 
I've shed like shameful skin;
you call me crazy, I'll say, 
"Thank you.
Only the best people are.”
So we must be in the looney-bin.
But I am done in with
pretending I am aspiring to be plastic.
Be elastic.
Be fantastic.
Be unenthusiastic about the drastic measures used
to keep you in your place -
be your age and your race and the way you keep running off the page;
wipe that lipstick off your face.
Take off your six inch heels because I know they are just shoes
but they must killing you.
Breathe, and dance, and be 
the mimicked constellations of your tiny galaxies.
Be breathtaking, and a fool -
because you, darling, are so much more 
than beautiful.


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