When he tells you he doesn’t like the way you look when you wear red lipstick,
I hope the next words your lips form are “fuck you.”
When I wear red lipstick I feel like I could bring down an army of men with the wave of one hand.
And who is he to take that away from you?
When he tells you he preferred you when your body was “tighter”,
I hope the next gesture from your hands is a middle finger.
When I look in the mirror, I see the wide hips of Aphrodite.
Who is he to tell you what your body should look like?
If he disguises it for honesty,
And you still feel pressure to look a certain way,
Just walk away.
I’ve learned that nobody knows you better than you,
Nobody knows whats better for you than you do.
Wear red lipstick if you want to,
Cut your hair if you want to.
Don’t let anyone stop you from being you.
I am never going to be a mother,
Out of fear that I cannot wipe the tears in their eyes,
I will be wiping my own instead.
Out of fear that I cannot get them out of bed in the morning,
I cannot even get out of it myself.
I will not be able to protect them from high spaces,
Or hold their head above water,
I will be too busy allowing myself not to drown.
I think sadness must be in my blood,
It is a disease,
Threatening my every chance of happiness.
I don’t think I can ever be happy.
I have had boys who devoured me,
ravaged me – wouldn’t even look at me.
I expected you to be the worst,
the most animal among them,
with your ice cold hands
and your ice cold heart.
What used to make me cry
was the memory that you might not be a monster after all,
when I remembered the feeling of your lips pressed softly to my collar bone.
And the gentle strokes of your fingertips on my hips,
How our hands would collide in the middle of the night,
I would fantasise;
You were just the beast in a fairytale
waiting to open your ice cold heart to my warm hands.
I would watch the icicles thaw,
watch you shed your thorns.
Slowly, you would fall in love with me
and give me the happy ending that I was searching for.