Womanhood is like the blue whale,
with all of its 170 tonnes
crashing my bones,
and Iâm rushing
to change the way I look to look attractive to men I donât care to look attractive for.
I mourn my longer hair because coworker said he liked
the girls with longer hair;
unnecessary, unfair.
I crave with utmost hunger to be
routinely desired because weâre taught
from younger age to hide all
seemingly revolting parts
branded by societal voice that keeps on ringing in our head
like an alarm I put on snooze.
And I wake up in bed with doubtful excuse
that scratch my body like the crumbs of shame underneath my tailbone.
Comparison is womenâs hunger we cannot satiate
because the thinnest waist is whatâs desired to be served on a plate.
I remember being fifteen and
losing my crown of femininity â
twenty inches of my hair are gone.
And my male best friend
had looked me up and down,
âYou wonât be pretty for the boys.â
But do I have to?
Now certainly I do.
(Another unnecessary noise).
I look into the mirror a dozen times per day
and then I donât.
I avoid reflection like looking at myself would turn me into a stone,
and thereâs a tonne
of skipped meals
and clothes dragged along my body,
haphazardly changing sizes, making myself
fit into the smallest one they made for bodies that arenât mine.
I apologise for looking tired and not my best;
Like scratching another lottery ticket and the cause of lost are
shame and self-destruction.
Womanhood is like a colony of ants:
building and pleasing, building and pleasing,
having to fit my role
and the sole
purpose is to keep on growing roots into
love and self-respect â
my most authentic self
I save and never purposely dilute
for someoneâs gaze and decadence.
