|
I know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm |
|
Like squeezing into last year's prom dress |
|
I know girls who are low rise, mac eyeshadow, and binge drinking |
|
I know girls that wonder if they're disaster and sexy enough to fit in |
|
I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin |
|
Playing Russian roulette with death |
|
It's never easy to accept that our bodies are fallible and flawed |
|
But when do we draw the line |
|
When the knife hits the skin |
|
Isn't it the same thing as purging |
|
Because we're so obsessed with death |
|
Some women just have more guts than others |
|
The funny thing is women like us don't shoot |
|
We swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue |
|
Still proceeding to put on make-up |
|
Still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable and attractive |
|
We might as well be buried with our shoes and handbags and scarves |
|
Girls, we flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark into our skin |
|
I know how to split my wrist to reveal a battlefield too |
|
But the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies |
|
Our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral |
|
Offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say |
|
"I only know how to exist when I'm wanted" |
|
Girls like us are hardly ever wanted you know |
|
We're used up and sad and drunk |
|
And perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up |
|
And tell us that we did good |
|
We did good |
|
I know I am because I said am |
|
I know I am because I said am |
|
I know I am because I said am |
|
My body is home |
|
My body is home |
|
I know I am because I said am |
|
I know I am because I said am |
|
I know I am because I said am |
|
Try this |
|
Take your hands over your bumpy love body naked |
|
And remember the first time you touched someone |
|
With the sole purpose of learning all of them |
|
Touch them because the light was pretty on them |
|
And the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did |
|
Touch yourself with a purpose |
|
Your body is the most beautiful royal |
|
Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore |
|
Are not your razor, no |
|
Put the sharpness back |
|
Lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin |
|
I once touched a tree with charred limbs |
|
The stump was still breathing |
|
But the tops were just ashy remains |
|
I wonder what it's like to come back from that |
|
Because sometimes I feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists |
|
And the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things |
|
I've ever seen |
|
Love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet |
|
And brother, arm wrapping shoulders, and remember |
|
This is important: |
|
You are worth more than who you fuck |
|
You are worth more than a waistline |
|
You are worth more than beer bottles displayed like drunken artifacts |
|
You are worth more than any naked body could proclaim |
|
In the shadows, more than a man's whim |
|
Or your father's mistake |
|
You are no less valuable as a size 16, than a size 4 |
|
You are no less valuable as a 32A than a 36C, |
|
Your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood |
|
It is wisdom |
|
You are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out |
|
Reborn |
