I am a women

Not so long ago I sat in a room, a room I knew very well and thought to myself,  endlessly around in circles about who I was, who I used to be and there were moments I didn't quite know, then I thought, why. Why was I so suddenly this being who no longer recognised her own reflection, and amidst this I recoiled and these words presented themselves to me:  

I am a woman, imperfectly so. I have flaws and I have scars. Bad angles and wayward hair days, but I am still a women. I am difficult and complex, a paradigm of the universe and a product of this earth. Why would I want to deface something so wonderful the heavens put me here? Why are we so infatuated with the idea of being someone we are not? I we were all to wake up tomorrow and everything we complained about was perfect, where would we be? Breasts forever perky, like unexplored sixteen year old Barbie doll, wrapped and boxed for the world to see. If our hips never curved, widening to support life. Eyes never wrinkling in remembrance of a smile. Teeth crooked from ice-cream smiles and taking chunks from life. If that is the world you want to live in, I pity you.

 How could you be so selfish to want your partner to be perfect? Never falling and grazing a knee to understand that he or she is no God. How could you be so cruel to yourself to never want to experience the bad things in life, to never truly understand how those make you appreciate the good. How could you want t rob yourself and those around you of a love so wonderful, so pure as the one that you may share with that wonder staring back at you through the mirror, telling you how foolish you might be. You are a women, a product of the earth. A man, the protector of her light that shines ever so bright. Wake up! Open your eyes, she is fragile so you may care for her, she is strong so she may shelter you from the storm. And if this is the world you wish to live in then count me out, cause as you stand before crowds, lips filled with collagen, wrinkles filled with lies I’ll be here sitting at the back of the crowd having the time of my life. Wake up sweetheart when you're six feet under, maggots don't care if you died at fifty looking twenty-five. 

You're still going to die, and that, that my friends is the beauty of it all. To be honest and true, to look like a crumpled piece of paper because you laughed, to have boobs dancing on your stomach and an ass dangling way past your thighs, it makes the best music when it hits the back of your knees and I may still be young with a body that looks nubile, but I know when my time comes, I won’t hide behind incisions made beneath a surgical knife, I’ll embrace the dimples on my tights because I am women, a real women, imperfectly so. And I'm still more than happy to be alive.