There are times I hate being a girl
And it eats my insides like a savoury meal
But the hate is all I can feel
I hate the pressure to be a standard that is in our heads
To have pretty eyes, big butts and large round chests
The beating of our hearts when we are met with the man who will follow us home on a moonlit night
Our screams not being heard till we’re out of sight
Yet we still hear them in the air that once gave us life
And we get blamed for it, because supposedly what we were wearing was “too tight.”
So yes I hate being a girl sometimes
Not all of it, but the haunting experiences we face we try so hard to fight

A boy
Lives inside me
Beneath my skin that I paint with foundation, blush and dresses made of linen
He climbs my thoughts like tree branches and screams as loud as a lion
He watches in wonder as I trace my lips with liner and spray flowery scents on my arms, neck and face
He cries as men look at my figure and shout that they want a taste
As the boy I thought I loved touched me anyway
In places he doesn't even know how to say
The little boy goes back to a long time ago
When he was in a spotlight and was told to go
"There's no room for a boy when god chose you to be a girl"
So he lives inside of me
Watching me grow into the "women" I am
But he will always be there
Rolling around and being a lion

When I touch my arms I can’t feel them anymore
Of course I have arms and can feel the jaggedness of my skin and the soft texture of hair
But when I touch myself it never feels real
It’s a mental fixation within my brain
That tells me each and everyday that I do not exist in a world that feels so conscious to me
Everyone seems to have it figured out
What they like, what they love
hate and despise
Everyone has their lives in boxes
And I can’t remember what’s in mine
It feels so pointless as I write this poem
Who will read it?
When I’m all alone
I don’t feel my presence and I don’t feel seen
It’s funny when you didn’t cut, but you still feel the bleed
And people ask “why do you bleed?”
My response is “I tripped as I crossed that street.”
They don’t question, because I tend to make mistakes
They are what got me here in the first place
So maybe if I let that kitchen knife go that deep, or if that lady kept typing on her phone as she almost hit me in the passenger seat
If mom used protection instead of wanting it between her legs at just nineteen
I don’t know how to stay, but I’m too scared to leave
So I just keep bleeding