First of all, it’s unintentional misogyny and predestined subordination, and you are expected to put up with it.
It’s making your only goals to be pretty and bear children
and hope that one day a man will come and sweep you off your frail feet;
God knows you can’t do it yourself.
It’s faking dumb for that boy in your math class since no one wants to date a smart girl
unless she looks good on his arm. It’s pressure to be beautiful
by magazines and classmates and models
and your own mother.
It’s foundation, mascara, lip plumper, a ‘natural look’.
It’s staring at your reflection in the mirror with bloody eyes
and feeling ashamed of every curve on your repulsive body.
It’s pinching your stomach and gripping porcelain
as your throat burns and your body erodes.
It’s embarrassment over a tampon and concealment
of a natural bodily function
and having your rage dismissed as a menstrual symptom.
It’s hearing that your body is a distraction, that you are just asking for it in that skirt
and it’s your fault.
‘It’s not sexual assault, it’s a compliment’.
It’s definition by an arbitrary number and letter on a tag between your shoulder blades.
It’s having your nickname be ‘b****’ and ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ and ‘ugly’
and crying when you can’t decide which wound is worst.
It’s living up to the female standards. It’s being pure, but not prude;
strong, yet submissive; intelligent, but only intelligent enough; yourself,
but not.