body image · female objectification · Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · micropoetry · Poem · Poetry · positive body image · prose · sadness · Uncategorized

No More Pretty

No more flowery words
No more wispy vocabulary
No more false hopes woven into
beautiful phrases
No more lovely poetry
No more lies
No more pretty
No more pretty
No more pretty

Here’s a salute
to all those
who could not hide behind
a pleasing exterior,
those
who could not package themselves
into pretty wrapping paper
with a bow on top
Glittering
just to visually appease
those who looked at them

Here’s a salute
to all those
who could not deceive others
with their delicate lies,
who were
just as they appeared to be,
who did not hide behind
cakey surfaces
to earn approval
and validation from those
who did not care
to look beyond
the pretty picture

Here’s a salute
to all those
who were brave enough
to stand just as they were
and were not ashamed
of all the things
that made them
human,
to all those
who did not hide
marks and bumps and ridges
just to appear
more than they were

Here’s a salute
with my middle finger
to all those
who dared put down others
just for having flaws
and imperfections
for being human;
for being themselves

So no more flowery words
No more wispy vocabulary
No more false hopes woven into
beautiful phrases
No more lovely poetry
Just the truth
No more lies
No more pretty
No more pretty
No more prettycd69fa304e14703812980b919b38eb2d

abuse · female objectification · feminism · Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · harassment · Poetry · Uncategorized · women rights

Beloved Land, You Have Failed Her

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I feel unsafe on the land on which I walk,
though each grain of sand beneath my feet
is a testament to my existence.
This is the land that raised me,
shaped me into being,
the blood of my ancestors
still running cold underneath,
the land where I was born
the land to which I shall return,

The land that vowed to love me;
yet that very land
is unable to protect me today;
a woman.

I try to avert gazes
that look hungrily ahead,
mirth in their eyes
as looks are exchanged,
my DNA itself aware of what
meaning each look holds.
I am nothing but another item
to be gained, or to be used
for purposes of ridicule,
for their own enjoyment.
I am nothing but a mere object,
personified as a human.

A checklist in my mind
crosses each line off one by one:
is this covered, is that covered,
am I covered,
so I fall victim to the lesser of gazes
compared to the woman
who dares to show
a snippet of her skin.

“I shall not be objectified”
“I shall not be objectified”
I tell myself repeatedly,
to instill in me even a shred of self-dignity.
But even with all of my skin
compellingly hidden away
and my clothes
no way making evident, that I
may in fact be a woman,
my face betrays me
as I fall victim to crude glances
expectantly.
“You have already been objectified”
my voice tells me,
“the moment your chromosomes decided to be female.”

My beloved land,
the day a woman
had to cower down
before a man
for his own pleasure
was the day
you failed her,
you failed me,
you failed us all.