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.
