There’s a difference between calling a girl fit and hot and calling her pretty and beautiful
When you call me beautiful I imagine you noticing the way my hair falls from the clip over time
I imagine you noticing the way my giggle sounds and the way my smile lights you up
When you call me pretty I imagine you noticing the complexities of my eyes, the way my freckles come out in the sun and and depth of my dimples
Pretty is noticing the way my legs are sculpted when I walk ahead of you and the way my nose flares when I genuinely laugh
Fit is the body two ***** and a waist
A pair of lips you can only imagine what they do
Hot is the low cut top exposing my cleavage and my ability to open my legs for you
Fit is a one night stand word or the words of a man in a club hoping that that night you are feeling especially vulnerable and insecure
Beautiful is the text she gets when she lies in bed at 11pm asking if she wants to go on a walk
And although she professes to him excuses when she walks out the door of a lack of make up and three jumpers to keep out the cold and her insecurities encapsulated by her self destructive smile and her hair pushed behind her ear
You lift her face and examine that untouched smile
The rawness of her appearance and the purity of her eyes
That is beautiful
And you call it so
When fit is the way a body looks and how much makeup can look like none
Pretty is the way she smiles when she sees you and the way she feels looked upon.
i wrote this in the corridor of my student house while trying to pluck up the energy to go and get my key
The climbing aspects of mould corrupted walls
Engraved with hurtful carvings of a lifetime of meaning
A tentative twinkle emerged from your face
Not filled with angel features
Or blessed by the Gods
But an innocent longing for the verbalisation of those unspoken words
But I told your best-friend everything
I worry this is it
Charlie would be happy
Even though he never is
Happy for you
he always is as i examine
The complexity of the raindrops lashing
I wonder where it’s been
I wonder if there’s a world a nirvana where i’ll Know that about you
But I was told by your best-friend first.
You’ve got those eyes
The one’s they talk about in movies
And that smile
That echos around my head like a the bass at a concert
But I’m in love without you
Because he also has that smile
And he holds me just right
And he has that mannerism where he pushes his hands through his hair when he’s nervous
And I’m not afraid anymore
Of your destructive fear
Or your eccentric need to impress others
Or your obsession with what I wear
Because I’m in love without you
Never thought I’d feel this way again
Please don’t still love me.
If I’m okay why do I cry all the time.
Why do I feel so scared
Why am I terrified to say no
Why do I let them yell
But trust me
Don’t worry about me
my friend said she’s
She’s not she’s insecure
And I don’t mean any offence bu that statement
But she thinks the chains around her neck make her appeal to her abuser
And the fact that she’s never, really, properly drunk and yet pretends she’s wild and has lives lives she hasn’t
She says “ if you ever need someone to be a crackhead I’m right here”
She has sisters
I have brothers
And although we’re no longer defined by genders I think we are now
She wants to be like her younger sister
But she’s not popular like her
She lacks for charisma
But is sweet and kind
She thinks “cage the elephant” is indie music
And thinks listening to the strokes makes her cool
And that turning of capital letters on her phone somehow makes her “not like other girls”
I don’t do any of that **** and I don’t pretend to be quirky, angsty, and different
And all the boys prefer me.
And yet I’m insecure
She should go back to fan-girling over Shakespeare
And writing books and poetry for fun
And different you’re just insecure
Ok yeah good. ? !
Got it perf.
Vibes. Cool,,, lel!’v
this isn't meant to cause offence just meant to make an observation on fakeness (As said by Hugo) but yeah. enjoy and don't take it TOO personally
Does my skirt provoke you?
Are you scarred by my top?
Does the length and depth define me,
Could I do a better job?
Am I made by what I wear?
An outfit I compose
The paint I layer on my face
The cut of my clothes.
You say I have no self control,
No power of restraint,
You place me in a little box
A student with a male teacher or peer.
It’s her fault he could not.
Hold himself away from her
Chain himself to the chair
labelling her his object
Instead of averting his stare
I’m not defined by cloth it’s purpose is warmth
Nor the body underneath
It is me and my intelligence
Does my existence provoke you
Fill you with disgust
Because my ability to choose
Is simply not good enough
For the standards you set me
The body I must have,
To be considered ‘pretty’
To be considered ‘bad’
My skirt can not be to short
My shirt not to deep
Because a low neckline
Will prevent my ability to speak
Does my happiness provoke you
My confidence in who I am
Because it’s taken a long time
To love myself
My body is incredible
Not only do the subtle curves from inch to inch make me feel desired
Or the little waist my mothers middle age friends comment on
Or the fragile battle scars of a lifetime spent trying.
But the internal haven of complex systems
Each of which so cleverly placed.
A life source
I am my mother and fathers child
A founding force of a long full love
Trillions of lives I may have lived
Millions of faces I would never had seen
Thousands of places I longed to go.
My body is my protector
Sheltering me from my worst instincts
To carry me through youth with agility
And to eventually carry another
But that is my choice
You cannot put me or my body in a box
You cannot tell me how to live
Throw away your pointless cries of justification
I can’t hear you
I don’t want to hear you.
Why should a government official tell me how to be, who to carry, what to do.
My body is a vessel not yet ready for carry.
I need to carry me first
Take it a step at a time
I don’t love myself yet
It takes time
Nor do I love my body
Appreciation is the word. For now.
From the intricate designs of the birth mark on my leg
To the S shape scar on my thigh
The unanswered scar on my cheek and the moles that cover my arms.
They are mine and no one else’s
They can stay as I choose
As can it
Not he or she or they but it
Because it’s my choice
I am not an object
You do not own me
You do not own women