Teenage years

There are a thousand reasons to be sad tonight.
And it’s not that life has been a constant fight
or that brightness blinds me like a thousand suns
or that I must tend to the burns
that they – yes, they – made so long ago.
And it feels like it by now I ought to now
that A and B don’t mix and match
that he and I not right for that
that perfect is as perfect does
that I make out of perfect nothing such a fuzz
that mess is my fault and I must pick it up.
Pick myself up. Dress, heels, makeup
on point. If only my body were sexy enough,
and my nails grew long and I was a bit more tough.
They wouldn’t get to me.
But this is what has become of me.
Their poison is in my veins, heart, lungs –
and if only I were to speak in tongues.
That would solve everything and clean
the sin that corrupts my image. So pristine
I’m meant to be.
But I’m not.
I am not a flower, baby pink, singing happily.
I have a mind, I speak and I’m unique.
And they shut me down and tell me that
women cannot be fat
that I should not be concerned with basic human rights
that some things don’t need a spotlight
that animals are not people and don’t feel.
that I should be quiet, skip my meals
and be skinny, be pretty, be so freaking cute.
Tongues and songs and white picture-perfect scenes
are nothing more than a mask to cover up my teenage years.

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