Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I have already heard the word rubbed raw across the flesh of so many girls before me. Thrown at them like rocks that beat the skin of those we do not understand.
“You are beautiful,” we yell with such contempt. “God dammit, why won’t you just believe me, you’re beautiful!” It is not a compliment. It is a victory march of your own self sacrifice. “You’re beautiful,” we say through gritted teeth. “You’re beautiful,” we spit out through tears, looking at a reflection we hate. “You’re beautiful,” we say, holding a body that has never felt the arms of another. “You’re beautiful.”
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. A word like that floats on the surface, give me something with depth. Tell me I’m intelligent. Tell me I’m courageous. Tell me that when I laugh the whole world smiles. Tell me that my voice is sweeter than strawberries. Remind me that my hands have helped flowers grow, painted the ocean, and captured the sky in my phone. Assure me that with a mind like mine, I can change the world.
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t really care if it’s true. I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that beauty goes through and through. Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I’ve felt the word splatter against me enough for a lifetime. I am better than the “beautiful” that slips from your lips. I am the ocean, 36,000 feet deep. There are parts of me you have never seen. I am outer space, infinite in your search. I am not simply “beautiful.” I’m a fucking masterpiece.
Not Everyone is Beautiful (via crimson-jpg)
It all comes down to this.
To the fact that I have nothing
to write about anymore.
My hair is blonde now.
People look at me more. Try to
figure out if it’s natural. Think that
if they stare long enough, they can
will my roots to show themselves.
My hair is blonde now, and,
somehow, that changes everything.
My friend calls me ‘striking’ and
some guy in the city tells me I’m
‘unforgettable,’ but no one wants
to kiss me. Or at least no one
I am still finding strands of dark hair
on my pillow from before. Before I
really committed and even dyed my eyebrows. Before I decided
that something needed to change
and that it was me.
No, I’m not hiding something.
Yes, I feel prettier now.
So I’ve got nothing. No one new
to hurt over or hurt for.
It’s all quiet here, like before the
cannons. Before the first shot
and the first person to fall to
the ground, lifeless.
Before the war? The storm?
I hardly know anymore.
I’m trying to enjoy this, and I am,
but why is it so quiet?
Why am I always waiting for
It scares me that I need a tragedy.
That maybe I always will.
"For Women Who Are Difficult to Love," Warsan Shire (via commovente)