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 wrists 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
You did good.
So try this
Take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked
And remember the first time you touched someone
With the sole purpose of learning all of them
Touched 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
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 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
You are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out
I Know Girls (Body Love) - Mary Lambert (via sadnina)
I need all the help I can find, today. To all of you who feel the same: We are not alone.
It’s awfully hard to take a break from it, as you are right there, right here, and it’s impossible to deny that your body is a part of you.
The thing with my body hate is,
I’m getting so tired, more tired every day. And I wish I would never have fallen down this well.
You are right; love should ideally be a two-way street. But to think that you are undeserving of love when you feel like you have no love left to give, is cruel. Think of all the times that you’ve been there for a friend, for a relative, for the random girl in class. We all run out of, and stumble across, love at different points in our life. If you’re lucky, things will align for fair periods of time. You’ll love and be loved. But sooner or later, we will all have loved without being loved “in return”, and the other way around. That’s fine. It’s the way the human curve works. You fall down, you get up. It is natural to accept an offered hand, even when your other one is busy pushing your own body off the floor.
Loving people without being loved is a sacrifice with a purpose.
Not accepting people’s love, because you’re unable to provide love in return, that’s pointless.
My bodily autonomy was breached this past weekend, and frankly it’s haunting my mind. Time to write.
(Mention of unwanted intimacy only)
I think the thing with this one, was mostly that my boyfriend was right in the same room, constantly. We were at this party of one of his friends, whom he hadn’t seen in ages, and of course I was trying to be social and impressive even, in a way. Unfortunately, the man whose birthday it was decided to make several moves on me, some of which physical, and at first, when I told my partner, he sort of laughed it off.
It’s okay now, in the sense that it got so obvious my boyfriend noticed, and in that I’m safe, and nothing physically “too” intrusive happened,
but I think, for some reason, that our mutual trust has taken a hit over this. Which is stupid, because neither of us asked for any of it, of course. But I hate not being believed, and of course, he hates losing friends over something he hasn’t felt himself.
I feel awful. And slightly sick.
I’m sorry I had to share. I appreciate you.
You saying “it’s not you, it’s me”, is not an invitation to be ridiculed. It might be a cliché thing to say, but it was the best you could do.
Breaking up with people isn’t fun. It doesn’t provide a sense of victory, not even a hollow euphoria, and certainly not any degree of pleasure.
To hold someone accountable for breaking up with you - to hate them, actively, to bully them and to injure them -, is to admit that you were not ready to have a relationship. Not being ready is fine. Scarring people over it isn’t - no matter how much you love them, no matter how much it hurts.
I’m reminding myself, nowadays, that what my exes told me was not an inevitable truth. They were words spoken during heartache, when they felt vulnerable and I seemed the right person to blame. That doesn’t make it okay.
That doesn’t make it contain even the slightest sliver of veracity.
I am done cutting into my bones over words wasted on angry days.
I am done whispering those hateful words to myself.
I am done.
I am so sorry. For all of it.