What does your reflection offer you? Is it purpose or meaning or value. Is it shame or disappointment or nausea. Is it a distant feeling of self, a ghosted shadow behind your curtains, a skeleton shelled with matter, a decaying organ of question. My mocking body can deceive me. My body is government owned property. I'll act as though it's mine, but its control is far more beyond myself. Though we can't call it fate because fate would be chance and standards of beauty are not boasted off of chance. I only can believe when my body belongs to me and when I do I feel the oppression breath of empress. Of girl power. To ponder upon how much of our bodies make up who we are seems intoxicating to the esteem? Is outer beauty truly an reflection of the inner. I’ll paddle back and forth in my pre dreams. P. I. N.G. I’ll imagine myself from others, but the relentless societal pressures stare deep into me blindlessly. They become figures of darkness, molding into mountainous improbable expectations. When my sister strolls through social media she isn't in control. She is devoured by perfection. While the promiscuous are overpowered and poisoned. Send your body a sail on the internet and you'll have it returned tarnished, rusted, and raped. Sometimes I want to throw my body against itself in the mirror. Truly test if it's really there. Maybe caught it off guard in the evening, and well because the plastered template of the accepted body still exists while my own rotting body has already been instinctated. Women don't choose what they want their bodies to look like, they choose what their bodies to look like off of other womens. Then sometimes we scowl at the fantastical form taking shape in our lingering pre bodies. I feel as though the ground has dug into my fleeting fears of destruction, the paranoia of perfection banes my coffee black. Why can't my muscles stop straining for attention? Why can't my word be enough? When I believe my body is beautiful does that mean everyone else will. No. When my mutated bodied barbie takes contours, then will I be happy? No. No. Don't post that bikini picture, he won't notice you without cleavage, they only notice her because of her cleavage, they’ll think you are a whore, but she is a whore, can't keep it to herself, you don't have to show off, embrace your body, Hide everything, love yourself, let others love you. Ladies. We are stuck in a black hole, in constant contraction of acceptance. There is a waiting line in the self esteem checkout. And you still have to stand 6ft apart, masked and muted. Women shouldn't have to feel like they are a part of this continuous competition of beauty, I want to stop running for my worth. What can I blame for these troublesome debts. Who is at fault for our corruption. The finger in the mirror wants to point at me but instead will poke away itself at men. The answer is that we shouldn't have to blame. We don't need that answer. Instead we need worth. We need reassurance that our bodies are worth more than a false sense of self. We want to be nurtured with love and cared for persistence, because we know damn well that we have waited long enough. And no I'm not going to edit my hips and no i'm not going to enlarge my breast. I will not battle my body, not sacrifice my shell for sale, not exterminate my flaws, burn my insecurities, I will not stand for you naked. I don't know who needs to hear this but I want my body back.
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