a graphic designer’s little online home
How ‘bout a girl who’s got a brain
Who always speaks her mind?
It’s not like I don’t think you’re a nice guy
but I don’t want my parents to see my face
on the eleven o’clock news tonight,
a forever lost girl, my emaciated body
blown up across every flat screen television
in my neighborhood.
I think you’re nice, really, I do,
but I’m still going to take one step back
for every encouraging smile you give,
still press my open palm against the front
pocket of my purse for the reassuring
outline of my pepper spray,
run my nail along the jagged
edge of my house key,
search for the glare of at least one
‘EXIT’ sign and angle my body in its direction.
I’m careful not to smile too wide,
or breathe too loudly,
or look at you too long without a reason.
Even the heads of lettuce are beginning
to look threatening,
the fluorescent lights overhead too bright.
Ordinary things like other shoppers
and crisp apples become menacing, torture.
I’m sorry that it has to be this way.
More than likely you are here to buy peanut butter
for your children
or a birthday cake for your wife
and I’m just a girl in the way of that,
nervous and standing on her toes
as if poised for flight.
I am used to boys liking me
for my body more, for imagining how I look
spread out like a sheet on their beds or laps,
hands sunk deep up to my rib cage,
bending and rearranging the notches
in my spine until I am unrecognizable
but still lovable in their eyes.
It is not your fault. But I’ve seen the news.
I’ve read enough articles,
have seen enough bodies split open,
their insides full of bleed, plaster, jelly.
Tragic, people say, faces dry.
A statistic accepted. A choke chain
demanding to be pulled tighter.
Louis C.K., Live at the Beacon Theatre (via thegrimreaperofrelationships)
i mean, as with all things sexual, ymmv, but. this feels pretty true to me!