Nov 2019
Dear Instagram
When I was a little girl, I made friends with who I found funny, and creative.
When I met you I knew that we would not be congruent.
You, with your self mutilating circus, painting women as clowns in a never ending charade of poses.
And we cry, when not enough strangers find us delectable, when we fail to become the cardboard cutouts of success you have plastered on our walls under goals, next to “college” and “get a job” and “stay alive” and “be happy” sits “be attractive”
Now, I judge you on the inadequacy of your appearance.
As I sit and wait and try to become the cutout you indecently insist I adopt as my own self
Watching those who succeed and turning away from those who fail
Scared to suddenly realize the self inflicted sacrifice was for something not real. Scared to look at the perfect posers and realize I am not them, despising them for being better than me and being repelled by my own indecency.
You have made me hate the person I aspire to become
Dear the online representation of myself.
You are not real
You are something I have pondered for hours, perfected and selected like nonorganic berries
Positioned precisely, a mosaic of pieces forced together to be pretty but not art
Not an expression of self but a desperate plea breathing “look at me, I am broken but I look whole, I am miserable but I will look happy, I do know know why I am here but I will still smile and try to be happy I am just trying to look happy I am just trying to look
I am alone but surrounded by people looking at me for a second and moving on to the next image they found attractive
the people I see for those seconds are not those that I knew because the people I knew were not perfect, they were flawed, each flaw imprinted on the whole like the conclusive strokes in an impressionist painting, making it a painting, not perfect but still beautiful.
I hate myself for not being the perfect parts of someone else
More perfect than possible, a life I wish but am glad I do not have yet pretend I do out of self hatred for being caught in a non violent, invisible charade.
When I was a little girl, I made friends with who I found funny, and creative.
When I met you I knew that we would not be congruent.
You, with your self mutilating circus, painting women as clowns in a never ending charade of poses.
And we cry, when not enough strangers find us delectable, when we fail to become the cardboard cutouts of success you have plastered on our walls under goals, next to “college” and “get a job” and “stay alive” and “be happy” sits “be attractive”
Now, I judge you on the inadequacy of your appearance.
As I sit and wait and try to become the cutout you indecently insist I adopt as my own self
Watching those who succeed and turning away from those who fail
Scared to suddenly realize the self inflicted sacrifice was for something not real. Scared to look at the perfect posers and realize I am not them, despising them for being better than me and being repelled by my own indecency.
You have made me hate the person I aspire to become
Dear the online representation of myself.
You are not real
You are something I have pondered for hours, perfected and selected like nonorganic berries
Positioned precisely, a mosaic of pieces forced together to be pretty but not art
Not an expression of self but a desperate plea breathing “look at me, I am broken but I look whole, I am miserable but I will look happy, I do know know why I am here but I will still smile and try to be happy I am just trying to look happy I am just trying to look
I am alone but surrounded by people looking at me for a second and moving on to the next image they found attractive
the people I see for those seconds are not those that I knew because the people I knew were not perfect, they were flawed, each flaw imprinted on the whole like the conclusive strokes in an impressionist painting, making it a painting, not perfect but still beautiful.
I hate myself for not being the perfect parts of someone else
More perfect than possible, a life I wish but am glad I do not have yet pretend I do out of self hatred for being caught in a non violent, invisible charade.
