How?

Dear grown women,
I’ve heard you question
My red lips
Winged eyeliner
Three layers of foundation 

And the way I’ve tried to conceal my bare reality
You tell me that the only way I’ll be accepted is if I learn to accept myself.
I am nothing but sorry as I ache to ask you
How do you explain self-acceptance
To a generation taught beauty is pain
To a generation taught that the only way they’ll be considered beautiful
Is if they procure the unachievable perfection
Found on the front pages of magazines
How?

Dear grown men,
I’ve seen the way you look at me
The way you think I bid you to force yourselves upon me
By wearing shorts the length of what you consider ‘inviting’
I am nothing but sorry as I ache to ask you
How do you explain ‘appropriate’
To a generation taught that clothing
Is just another way of expressing?
What if I told you I feel naked?
What if I told you I pay heed to the way you try to x-ray
Your way to the insides of my clothing
What if I told you that this is me expressing myself
What now?
How?

Dear old generation,
I am nothing but sorry as I ache to ask you
How do you expect me to take the blame
For a trying to please a generation you raised?

I’m scared it’ll be just you.

That’s what really scares me.
Falling in love is easy. Having sex is easier. But bumping into someone that can spark your soul - that shit is rare.

You could have sex with four, five, all the people in a god damned room and you’d only feel a connection with one. Or none at all.

And what sucks is despite the undeniable real magnetic pull between the two of you, more often than not, you don’t end up together.

I’m afraid I won’t meet anyone else I can connect with.

I’m scared it’ll be just you.

A museum of feelings.

A museum of feelings, I walk around with the words printed all over my face disguised as sad excuses for expressions.
Vulnerability put on display like a five foot tall girl made of straws, they call it “emotion”.
When tears roll down my face, I tell myself I’m finally feeling. 

Turns out they’re just a ticket for you to enter my tempest and destroy it!
A museum of feelings, I call my anatomy.
Everyone’s welcome here. Go on, feel me.
My anxiety is almost as beautiful as a fake Mona-Lisa with a bad frame.
My sadness, like listening to a decade old rusted trumpet over the sound of modern music. (Ew. Who likes that anyway?)
People walk past and pick at insecurities as if they were six year olds pointing at naked women’s paintings, and then they stare at their feet.
I hold up my sadness with pride as if it were a masterpiece.
As fragile as a ton balancing on twine.
Passerby’s drinking my love as if it were cheap wine.
Empty halls much like my chest, locked in art just waiting to impress. 

A museum of feelings, I walk around with the words printed all over my face, disguised as sad excuses for expressions. 

Nobody likes museums anymore, oh look! it’s shut down time.

I wore too much eyeliner, it ruined my vision and I got glasses.
My lips were too chapped, I bit on them more often as they bled.
My front teeth were too crooked, I stopped smiling.
My skin was two toned with hundreds of acne scars, I wore tons of foundation.
I left my hair open to hide behind it.
Last Friday, I threw away my glasses and got contact lenses.
I stopped biting my lips and bought myself some lip balm.
I embraced my crooked teeth and laughed all day.
I realized my acne scars look like stars waiting to be put to constellations.
I got a new pixie haircut.
I think I'm happier now.
But I don't think I'm myself anymore.

you know you're not alright
when you wake up in the morning
and your first thought is
"damn! im still alive"
and your second thought is
"ouch! i still feel pain"
third thought is
"How should i make it stop?"
fourth thought is
"chuck it, I just wanna end this crap once and for all"