“But you’re not fat, don’t say that,” he responded.
Tell that to the hips that got caught in a turnstile yesterday and everyday that she forgets to turn sideways. Tell that to the stores that stop at size 12 (or size 10 if she wanted to look her age). Tell that to the small woman rolling her eyes beside me on the subway as my booty spills over into her seat. Tell that to the holes my inner thighs have rubbed into every pair of jeans I own. Tell that to the rolls on my back & the crevices in my ass.
Tell that to the silence at the end of your sentence that should say “because fat people are ugly, because if I think you’re attractive you can’t be fat because I’m saving fat to degrade a woman two sizes smaller than you but with a flatter chest & a spare tire. Because you’re not fat is a compliment even when it’s not true because what I’m really saying is you don’t repulse me the way fat people are supposed to repulse me. Because I get final say on your body, not you & I’m giving you a pass for the same dimpled ass I laughed at on another woman yesterday because your waistline is smaller than hers and a normal woman would just be happy with that.”
“I’m still depressed, but how depressed I am varies, which is good. Much of the time, it’s a comfortable numbness that just makes things feel muted. Other times, I’m standing in the shower or something and I can feel the nothingness hurtling toward me at eight thousand miles per hour and there’s nothing I can really do aside from let it happen and wait until it goes away again.”—Allie Brosh, Hyperbole and a Half (via k—swan)
do you remember the first time you were called annoying?
how your breath stopped short in your chest
the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze
the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue.
your eyes never left the floor that day.
you were 13.
you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”
apologies littering every other sentence,
words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.
i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours
there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;
mostly because they can’t handle their own.
but you will never be
and have never been
“have you considered that maybe i am not pleasant?
maybe i wear lipstick so that
you will see my pretty pink mouth
wrapping around a coffee cup lid
and be distracted enough not to notice
that i am intelligent and powerful;
maybe i draw my brows into high arches
so you will look at my unimpressed skepticism
and overlook my spiteful glare
as a trick of my silly, girlish routine.
maybe i wear my heels so high and thin
so that i grasp your attention with the sway of my hips
as i listen to the click-clack-click against the floor
and know that if you should try to overpower me
i walk on sharpened knives.
maybe when i laugh at your worthless jokes
i am really baring my fangs
waiting patiently for the day
that i sink them into your neck.
i am not made of porcelain pleasantries;
you will find that these things are my armor
to keep you at a distance
so you do not step on me and shatter
my fragile control.
i am not a husk — i am not wilting.
i am turning my head
so that the fire blazing through my eyes
does not catch on the accelerant of your sweaty palms
and burn your bones to dust.
i am not your pretty girl;
i am a fury, a faerie, a phoenix —
a forest of werewolves and wendigos
that will carve out your chest
so that the next time i paint my pretty pink lips
i will taste the copper tang of your dying breaths.”—R.K., I Am The Wolf Only Barely Contained (via jameskerk)