To be woman.

To be woman is to exist within the grasp of a culture in which from birth your body is so intimately tied to your value as an individual that regardless of the encouragement Mama and Papa bestowed on you, or the immeasurable positivity and support your role model kick-ass feminist teacher poured atop your developing mind, or the overwhelming self-confidence blossoming within your soul, you are perpetually bombarded, from all angles, with the devilish reminder that your body defines your entire existence.  A reminder that as a female, you are burdened with the tangible weight of the male gaze. Not only from your male peers, but from the people you are told to trust and respect, rather the father of your best friend, your history teacher, or your soccer coach. From childhood on you are forced to swallow a pill, the pill of inescapable self-consciousness that your body contains the potential for both danger and shame, and that it is your responsibility to disguise it, hide it, in a way unoffensive, unenticing to the outside world. 

So tangible are the female bodily conduct rules they need not be verbalized. The walk to the principal's office for the sliver of belly that reveals itself when you raise your hand in Spanish class, or the youth group leader's declaration that the unintentional sight of a blossoming woman's cleavage is to blame for men's fall from grace. You learn that your body stands as a center of public debate, open for everyone's opinions, from your male lab partner declaring your jeans make your ass look fine, to the male-dominated congress dictating the parameters of "legitimate" rape.

To be woman is to live within a woman's body, held to a set of paradoxical standards that leave you to consistently doubt your instincts, and hurdle over dozens of truths in pursuit of a unattainable perfection.

To be man, true, honest man, is to admit you can not comprehend what is it to be woman.

One More Time with Feeling.

Photographs of a girl, gaunt yet radiant, hang all along the wall. Like weeds in a garden, these images have a habit of appearing out of nowhere. Found tucked between folds of clothing or glued to the pages of abandoned journal entries, all depict the same frail girl: exposed ribs, collarbone daringly bare. Each portrait a constant reminder of a life I fear I can never return to. A reminder that at one moment, I was as pretty as a flower.

Drift off into a steady ponder, is love restricted to that between two souls? Is there some internal love bar within us all dictating the maximum amount of love we can offer? Is caring for one person taking away your ability to care for another? I find that rather selfish.

Awaken from this daydream with the gentle settling of pills atop your palm. With a demeaning smile, he promises to make my brain behave. I can't even function in this world without some alteration. Hah, pills, like that'll make me forget.

All desire is gone, but he stole all my razors, and the garage door doesn't shut. I'm such an animal, but his gaze acts as a cage. So nauseas, dry heaving for years, and to think, Tuesday I can finally, finally, throw it all up and admit love you forever not maybe.