This is beauty.

Within an isolated pond, beryl algae emerges like a mother tortoise from her shell as the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. The honesty of wilting flower, her dying children: She doesn't mind that yes, we will remember her like this, not the graceful delight she once was. Or perhaps, the sole flaw in your award winning tomato garden, a stubborn weed, that just won't go away, no matter how hard you stab, regardless of the basin of Swedish fertilizer pooling at it's feet

What is beauty?

Guilt churns like Amish butter atop your molars leaving you jumpy with each ring of the telephone.
Wet, his skin glows with a majestic luster from the constant stream of creativity seeping from his pores.
The chatter of children's teeth and cascades of snow serve as the only trophy for the aggressive weather.
Proclaiming her strength, a steady stream of sweat that belongs to anyone but herself, runs across the overexposed spine of a newly formed warrior. Years later, she stands bare and vulnerable, waves of hair crash upon the ocean that is her back, presenting herself to you, she offers an honest invitation to open the door and forever change her.

What is beauty?

Overly excited, all too eager, you've felt the feeling before, cherries ooze out of the top of a pie crust.
Whereas a utopia flourishes between the lips of two lovers you are left to believe that upon taking a hammer to your skull, all your ideas and fantasies would pour right out, purer and cleaner than water. No blood, no science, no worries. Across town, in his porcelain padded room he closes his eyes, a cloudy image forms between his bitter eye and its lid. Her memory is fading, but her radiance remains like the eternity of two mirrors facing each other.

Hark! Could it be? 

Beauty.

I am looking at you.

I am looking at you who 

snickers at the Subway employee, who happens to be female, as she makes your sandwich

in your Two in the Shirt (T.I.T.S) brand t-shirt.

You, the white teen who greets his friends with the N-word

only to proudly chant "I raped you, faggot" upon winning a series of video games to dehumanize your heterosexual buddies

who's eHarmony profile declares him a "quality guy."

He's just grown tired of being "friend-zoned," because sexless relationships with women are just oh so meaningless.

To all the men who bubbled in yes to the following questions

Are women obligated to shave their legs?

Do some women asked to be raped?

Is it okay to have sexual intercourse with a woman under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol?

Would you "force a women" into having sex with you?

I am looking at you.

To every man who responds to the fact that one third of the planet's female population will be raped in her lifetime by declaring that the statistics are mere lies, and the wage gap a myth.

To the men who believe the "pimpwalk" was a clever response to Slutwalk, a protest aimed at deconstructing victim blaming.

To the men who declare rape "surprise sex."

To all those who equate believing in the value of your gender to invading Poland by dismissing all self-proclaimed feminists as "feminazis"

To all the men who have banded together to play the collective role of the devil's advocate in response to a young woman's Facebook status concerning domestic violence

To every boy

guy

man

who has dismissed feminism because it "doesn't involve him"

To every boy 

guy 

man

who has ever

beaten

raped

dehumanized

a girl

gal

woman

To every male who justifies his behavior by declaring it's all just a joke, or that he isn't like that dude

To every boy

guy 

man

who is genuinely confused why feminists are 

angered 

upset

enraged

you're part of a culture

that perpetually chokes us 

girls

gals

women

but tells us 

to just breathe.

How it feels to be her.

Sorrowful, self-loathing, suicidal lyrics swirl together like the soy protein myths she slurps on weekends, creating the lengthiest most extravagant mix-tape known to this realm. Scratched with the most horrifyingly painful migraine, they weigh down the brain people repeatedly try to convince her exists.

Jointly, they grow frightened inside their jail-like rooms as the predictability of the surrounding faces begins to suffocate them. She keeps hoping a new one will appear among them, but it is yet to emerge, just a dreary cascade of the same regressive faces bonded with the same regressive beliefs.

Running for a moribund organization, she finds her sprints cluttered with visions of weed killers and fertilizers. Wilting petals, participants die off on this struggling flower of a dictatorship. Shackles at her feet, she wonders can they tell, can anybody tell? This weight, this memory, has built a brick wall around a heavily charred exterior. Chisel away, but the mortar remains like volcanic ash: gray, wet, deadly.

Her showers are hot and not always alone as memories and regret enter the crime scene, regardless of the fact that the lock remains. Like school children at recess, they taunt her as she stands shivering in her most vulnerable state. As if an instant replay, the pictures they paint of that summer day are so vivid, she can feel that rat in the faded blue t-shirt. A blaring I-pod hides screams of terror, but only impregnates fear. No matter how hard she scrubs she never comes clean. He tells her she's dirty and she's yet to prove him wrong.

Afternoon churns like Amish butter into evening as she lays in something familiarly burning. The hands of a monster who doesn't glue her with labels when crimson drips like a broken faucet from the rivers of her scarcely dressed body or pours from the ocean of my mouth draped about her like curtains.

So you tell me, what is life without a steady stream of death's kisses?

The Essential Wrongness of Complimenting Physical Beauty.

Yes, there is something essentially wrong about complimenting another woman on her physical appearance. If you're already flailing about in disagreement, let's take a look at a few of the most heavily trafficked social media sites. If there's nothing damaging about females praising each other's physical appearance, why then, are scores of young girls reblogging the same images of frighteningly skinny women and saying "I wish I looked like this!" or why is it that the young women with the most "likes" or "Omg! You're so pretty!" comments on Facebook commonly feature a similar facial structure, body type, and ethnicity? Not to mention, phrases like "I'll be happy when I'm skinny" or "I need to stop eating." that appear all over young women's twitter accounts.

Firstly, society's definition of physical beauty is far more exclusive than it is inclusive. With the majority of women left out of this narrow ideal, a cycle of pursuing unobtainable goals, and the failure that follows such unrealistic desires traps many women into a series of low-self esteem, lack of self-confidence, and even self-hate. Compliments on the basis of outward physical beauty place a heightened importance on physical appearance. If it is the women who happen to fit into this narrow perception of beauty that are repeatedly praised and admired, where does that leave all the women who don’t adhere to this ideal, rather it be due to size, race, sexual identity, etc., etc. Not only are these women not seen as beautiful, but they are not seen as something society has deemed of utmost significance.

Women’s complimenting other women on their looks perpetuates a notion of women as objects of beauty designed to satisfy a male-dominated culture. When beauty is for what women receive acknowledgement, than beauty is what women will strive to obtain, instead of developing intellectually, artistically, or emotionally. Rewarding women for their appearance feeds into a culture that asserts a woman's value is determined by her looks. As women, it is our duty to dismantle societal pressure to adhere to one standard of beauty.

If we are going to focus on the concept of beauty at all, in order for it to be a positive message that does not leave masses feeling less than, it needs to be an all inclusive movement. That is, humanity, as a species, is praised as beautiful, not a specific set of ideals in which one may fit into due to dumb luck or strive to achieve. Imagine a world where a size 14 transgender African American women who prefers to wear her hair natural and does not usually wear make-up has the same worth, and is seen as equally beautiful, as a size 4 blonde 20 something with long mermaid-esque blonde hair, perky breasts, killer abs, and a wide-eyed appearance perfected by MAC cosmetics. Imagine a world where models can have wrinkles, scars, tattoos, and cellulite. Imagine a world where pop stars can be post-menopausal, a billboard woman proudly sports her hijab, and the commercial actress attempting to sell you the latest gotta-have-it product is a plus size Asian with acne.

'Tis much more beneficial to be part of a movement that reminds us, both male and female, of the subjectivity of beauty and disarms the construct that society has too long brainwashed mass culture into worshiping and adhering. As no one chooses the arrangement of their facial features or the thickness of their bone structure, we should pride one another on all that we can control. Instead of reinforcing the idea that the most valuable thing a woman can be is “pretty,” we should appreciate qualities of strength, such as intelligence, humor, courage, talent, and creativity in each other, preferring to possess such character traits ourselves over being “pretty” or “hot.” Our appearances should be something to have fun and playfully experiment, but little more.

If Only.

If the average straight white male

grew as disgusted with slut-shaming as he does Taylor Swift's new single or teenage girls setting their profile pictures to "duck-face" selfies,

was as enraged with men who think having sex with intoxicated women is perfectly legal and justifiable as he is with his hometown's star athlete upon signing with another city's team,

or turned his back to rape jokes as quickly as he does overweight women,

spent half as much time as he does fixated on sports educating his friends on how to respect females,

were as eager to participate in protests addressing the consequences of victim-blaming as he is to lose his virginity, 

were as humiliated to belong to a sex in which 58% would "force a woman to have sex" if they could get away with it as he is when someone suggests he is homosexual

viewed treating women as his equal as "manly" or "masculine" as he does guns, fishing, and hunting

or associated sexual violence and assault with the same weakness he transcribes to crying in public and "chick flicks"

the perpetuation of rape culture would cease to exist. 

Note: Statistic taken from Margo Maine's Body Wars.

It's Me.

Holy flashback, a piece written in the dog days of freshmen year.

It’s Me

Long waves crash on the ocean of her back

as bangs frame her face preparing for a picture perfect headshot;

with lips that dance like her hearts’ open flames she opens her mouth

like an oyster showcasing a valley of pearls and a cloudy puff of peppermint aroma.

Her eyes are rimmed with a delicate powder

the color of seashells, wet with the moon’s reflection.

She always thought maybe she deserved a little more

than a bed to sleep in, or the bigger piece of pie

because of all those faces that have entered

windows she swears to have had locked and

entered her body without invitation sitting oh so,

coyly on that windowsill, now chipped with secrets.

You could never tell by looking at her, but place a scale beneath her feet

and you will see that something is not weighing up

for soggy saturated memories flood the burden that is her soul,

mind carries barrels of pictures of a few not-so-precious moments she’d rather

forget. However, her heart is an open gate letting people in an out freely, but the people

she keeps there do not return the favor, for those she lets rest inside her do not exist, but

are just as real as you and I. The people who love her are the people she bans from napping beneath her chest because she hates them for the very fact, they love her.

I hope that you read this, behind black bars

know that it’s you in that faded blue t-shirt with the frayed hem with

sharp cruel eyes that don’t match your enticing smile, but rather your

actions, I hope that you read this knowing

it’s me. 

White Steed.

White steed is a key to a door without a keyhole.
Perhaps it's some security, the widening threat of never awakening.
One pinpoint to make you whole; a hunger for death's kiss fails to feed your soul.
Slip off into a dream, still pondering this loss of freedom - what is your role?

Harlow Blake, we'd call her, spat from the womb of a blackened spoon
and rocked asleep by bruised arms under a sorrowful moon,
only to be awoken each mourn with the alarm of a romanticized smack.
The ultimate maternal crime, a baby soothed on toxic milk's corrupt croon.

Misery courses through many a vein,
leaving you drooling in an all white facade,
'tis a sick recipe without a prescription, as a distorted euphoria lays across your brain.
Sanity and control: no longer can we feign.

Mama, papa, oh where to place blame?
Diluted into a puddle, drained into a cup, swallowed right up,
mere pawn in someone else's game.
So bright, so handsome, so the gentle words surround, "What a shame."