I wear this face like armor
Painting it with the blood, sweat, and tears
Of those who dare to come after me
These colors are not a mating call
But a warning
"My touch is toxic"
"My taste is like poison"
I am not the beautiful flower
I am the stinging bee
This war paint is not for you
It is for me
Six pack dude
Behavior so rude
He thinks he's good
Changing his mood
Wearing a red hood
With a Mexican boot
Cunning are his ways
A show off punk
But women say he's a hunk
What difference does it make
The six pack looks fake
Shirtless parading in the main
Suddenly comes the rain
Washes away his body makeup
Revealing his true being
Ladies giving ugly look
In embarrassment he shook
Laughters all around
He sat himself on the ground
So much for a show off hunk
His looks turned to a junk
Walked away in the heavy rain
Somehow I felt his pain...
Constant staring at the mirror every minute till I feel dizzy and my eyes can't carry it out any longer.
Just standing there hoping the zits, dark spots will magically disappear
Each night,It's a daily routine of skin care,pampering the skin with pricey fade out creams, scrubs, even out and Popping doxycycline pills.
Why can't I have the perfect skin like girls my age?
'Just give it a bit of time, they'll go' they always say.
But what fucking time?
I'm tired of hiding it all beneath the foundations and concealers.
Even with makeup, I still feel the need to hide the fucking scars on my face marred by acne.
With these feelings of insecurity and self consciousness
There is a Daily reminder of how ugly and unlucky I am
I can't take it anymore
Acne is a curse.
She wears mascara to hide her flaws
While her flaws find comfort in her empty soul
They fester inside and cut deep
She faces internal insecurity
Hating who she is supposed to be
Her inner beauty ugly as her attitude
Lacking the ability to show gratitude
Angry because it has never been appreciated
It's only been abused by men who left her feeling devestated
Heart broken and alone she found beauty in her mascara as it hid her facial errors
At least it covered her deepest fears
Wiped her heaviest tears
Her mascara became a mask full of errors
Only true love would get her to take it off...
not a beautiful gown
not high hills
I just wear my daily clothes
with my old shoes
I even can't apply make up on my face well
this head is still remember it
that million eyes weren't look at me
it wasn't like they did to another
who has elegant costume
well no problem, my heart said inside my ribs
that was my dream
I answered so many questions
I had a courage and a will
I thought that wasn't enough
I need a luck
my mom said that
my crown is not the real crown
because kindness will be your crown
I'm not quite sure when I first realized this body didn't belong to me.
12 years old, just a child, running down the street,
I "recieved" my first catcall.
Middle school me, masked by insecuirty, appauled,
Confused by the meaning behind this "gift" given to me.
Now, everywhere I turn, still a child at 15,
My insecuirty masked by makeup that defines my beauty,
I'm faced with whistles and comments that "raise my self-esteem."
I walk into a store alone and assess the face of everyone who passes by,
Wonder if my shirt is cut too low, or my pants too tight,
Because when I wear something I like, I'm inviting guys to stare at my ass.
8th grade, I first discovered leggings,
Comfort classier than sweatpants but easier than jeans,
Barely 13, I turn around to "Damn Alyssa, who knew you had a booty?"
Harassed daily in the halls by fist bumping boys who made no effort to hide the fact that I was the subject of their conversation.
But attention was attention,
I didn't know I was supposed to care my body was the only thing on display.
The year my best feature turned from my eyes, or my hair, or my smile,
To solely my body.
The year compliments were no longer for my new outfit, but instead my figure.
The year my leggings invited countless guys to add me on Snapchat just to start a conversation with,
"Your ass looked good today."
The world is a camera and I'm stuck in the frame,
Hopelessly on show for others to watch,
Wondering if I look alright,
Hoping I didn't blink.
Even now, I find myself turning around,
Making sure I look good in my jeans.
But this body doesn't belong to me,
I never look good just for me to see,
Because I was taught at age 12 that boys will be boys and only care about the outside.
Boys are supposed to look at my backside.
Recently I came to this realization and questioned why I was ever flattered by a comment on my body in a certain garment.
Why I readjusted push up bras and high waisted jeans to impress the boy in my dreams.
When I asked this question outloud, I was faced with "I can't help the fact you have a nice body."
"It's a compliment. If you don't like it, don't wear tight things."
But now I realize it's society.
Society is the monster that teaches young girls they are toys.
Society teaches sex, catcalls, and harassment to the boys.
I scroll through my Instagram feed, and posts show me that I am supposed to look nice.
For a man.
Because what's the point in wearing a bikini if a man doesn't see?
Standing in front of me in my mirror is a body marked by society.
Makeup that makes my skin and eyes pretty, society put that brush in my hand and taught me to paint.
Hair frying under heat,
Clothes that show my best features, according to society.
Now its 6:33 in the morning, I've been up for two hours, I'm blow drying my hair and wondering why the hell I care.
A body on show for everyone else to see,
This body doesn't belong to me.