You use to catch grasshoppers and frogs,

When you were younger,

To seal inside glass jars.

 

you loved putting,

“Mine,”

On them,

But I am not a grasshopper,

Or a frog,

 

Am I?

 

 

Christmas lights,

And tulips,

Are nothing alike,

But they are both considered beautiful,

 

So why do you not think,

Me beautiful?

 

So why do you not think,

Her brown skin is beautiful?

“This is our culture,” You said spreading your arms wide.

“Never trust anyone, never drink out of cups, and never in anyone confide.”

Is this all that the world is, to you?

Because it can be so much more, as long you try to make something out of it.

For D.

 

Can’t you see what they are doing to you?

Immaturity, cuss words, bad actions,

When did this start,

And when will end?

 

I don’t want to see another newspaper report,

But this one has your name.

 

I don’t want to have to search backpacks,

Or pockets anymore.

 

I”m tired of what they are doing,

But I can’t stop it.

It makes me feel sad,

That by age fourteen,

Girls curl their hair.

 

They wear make-up,

Talk about “foundation,”

“Mascara,”

And “Stranger Things.”

 

Who is boyfriends with who,

And what clothing stores have discounts on Wednesday.

 

 

 

That makes me feel sad because,

We were just little eleven-year-olds the other day,

Trying to figure out how to fly kites,

Escape the house with an extra cookie,

And other acts of childhood.

 

What happened in those three years,

That made boys, TV shows, clothes, and make-up,

More important than the wonderful things in life,

Like family, games, pranks, and living?

She was tired of wearing,

Jelwery that everyone else did,

Because it did not suit her style,

Or personality.

 

There was no meaning,

Behind a bejeweled bangle bracelet,

Or anything relatable,

In a metal bracelet with a branded word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

https://www.puravidabracelets.com

 

https://zox.la/pages/collections

“You are not like the other girls.”

 

Never say this. Those “other girls” are my friends and more. When you say that, you imply that I am more than others. I am more perfect than my mother, who raised me from a red wrinkled bunch of flailing arms. I am more desirable than my friends who are part of my large family. And I have more talents than my extraordinary sisters.

 

Don’t tell me that, and expect me to take it as a compliment. I won’t because it is a veiled insult. Don’t call me more, then the people who helped make me, me. Don’t call me perfect, because if that is all you see in me, then don’t bother at all. I am like other girls, and I want to be like other girls. If you want to compliment me, call me strong, brave, independent, exquisite, alluring, divine, lovely, fair, radiant, stunning, dazzling, breath-taking, enchanting, magnetic, striking etc.

 

Never tell me I am more than my friends, my mother, their mothers, all the wonderous people I have had the pleasure of meeting. The people who have influenced me in life when I was at my worst. So don’t call me that, if you simply want to compliment me.

She was not made,

To be a subtle pastel.

 

No,

She was made to be vibrant and bold,

With colors like fuschia,

And tangerine.

 

She caught your attention boy,

And she held it,

But though you noticed her,

When she was bright,

You wanted her to be dim.

 

You wanted her not to be enthusiastic,

About things she loved.

 

You wanted her,

Not to laugh so loudly,

And love so much.

 

You wanted her to be a pale pastel,

Even though it was her vibrant colors,

That drew you to her,

In the first place.

 

Don’t be a hypocrite,

And want her to change,

Just because you were attracted to her colors,

But didn’t like,

Her personality.

 

This is a sorry,

That he should have said,

To all the women,

He called “pretty.”

Because darlings,

You are more than that.

You are brave,

You are intelligent,

You are extraordinary.

Your spirit could crumble mountains,

And your hope could rein in the sun,

So don’t stick with him,

When all he calls you,

Is pretty.

I told my body,

I wanted to be it’s friend today,

And it gave me a smile,

Of all crooked teeth,

And brightness as it said,

“It took you long enough.”

You can raise your girls,

To sing sweet praises,

And meek words,

But I will raise my girls,

To breath fire,

And talk ice.

I will teach them how to survive,

And how to live.

I grew up in my body,

Just like I would a house,

But never learned to love it,

The way I should.

 

So when I turned fourteen,

I didn’t like it at all,

I hated my toes to the roots of my hair.

 

When I was sixteen,

You told me every day,

How wonderfully beautiful I was.

 

I started to love myself,

But was all the more foolish,

Because of it.

 

Silly me,

Why did I only start to love my body,

When you said so?

 

You left,

And I realized,

I never needed you,

To tell me how beautiful I was,

Because I needed,

To figure that out,

All on my own.

 

I grew up in body,

The way you would a house,

And I love every bit of it,

Because to me,

It is perfect.

This is an apology letter,

That I should have written,

A long time ago.

 

Instead of saying sorry,

About myself,

I should be saying,

To myself.

 

Dear Body,

I’m sorry,

For hating on your every second.

 

Dear Stomach,

I’m sorry,

For all the nights I made you go hungry.

For the days I didn’t eat on purpose,

And the days I kept going back,

To the scale.

 

Dear Nose,

I’m sorry,

For seeing you as imperfect.

For hating your freckles,

And the slight lump,

You have the middle.

 

Dear Back,

I’m sorry,

For never being proud of you,

And always slouching,

Because I was ashamed.

 

Dear Toes,

I’m sorry,

For not liking you at all,

And tucking you away in shoes,

Or socks.

 

Dear Cheeks,

I’m sorry,

For seeing you as chubby,

And hating when you flushed red.

 

Dear Shoulders,

I’m sorry,

For every time I wished you were,

Less broad,

And thinner.

 

Dear Arms,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you had fewer freckles,

And splotches.

For drawing on you in class,

Because I was scared,

Or worried.

 

Dear Eyes,

I’m sorry,

For wishes you were green,

And not such an in-between color.

 

Dear Knees,

I’m sorry,

For being ashamed of all your scars,

Instead of wearing them like medals.

 

Dear Thighs,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you didn’t touch,

Or jiggle.

 

Dear Chin,

I’m sorry,

For not liking your cleft,

And wishing the family mark,

Had crossed me over.

 

Dear Fingers,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you were thinner,

And elegant,

And long.

For wishes my finger nails,

Were more pretty looking,

And that my pinky finger,

Wasn’t so dreadfully short.

 

Dear Ears,

I’m sorry,

For hiding you behind my hair,

And not liking how small you seemed.

 

Dear Hips,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you were less wide,

And freckled.

 

Dear Figure,

I’m sorry,

For wishing you were more thin,

And perfect.

 

Dear Wrists,

I’m sorry,

For only loving you,

Because you were narrow,

And finely cut.

 

Dear Elbows,

I’m sorry,

For hating how bony,

And broad you were.

 

Dear Self,

Start to accept your outward appearance,

And not seek to change,

Anything,

Because there is a beauty,

In imperfectness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I once knew a girl,

Who was told,

When she was small,

“Pretty girl,”

Whenever she wore,

A beautiful dress,

A bejeweled hat,

Or a pair of sparkly shoes.

So when she grew up,

And went into high school,

She picked every outfit with precision,

Because that made her a “Pretty girl.”

She didn’t believe in comfy clothes,

Because she had been never called “Pretty girl,”

While wearing them.

So each day she made herself “pretty,”

By wearing the clothes,

Everyone else who was considered “pretty,”

Wore.

She bought beauty products by the dozen,

Because in middle school,

The day she wore lipstick and mascara,

Her parent’s cooed,

“Oh, what a pretty girl.”

And so,

She tried to become a “Pretty girl.”

She wore heels,

And cute strappy sandles,

Because in her last year,

Of middle school,

When she wore a pair,

Her parents told her,

“Oh, how grown up and pretty you look!”

She drove herself to be pretty,

Using everything she thought made her so,

But oh my darling,

You’ve been beautiful all along.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t tell me,

That he liked me,

When I came home,

From school,

With bruises on my skin,

In the shape of the knuckles,

That “falling down the stairs,”

Could never,

Have made.

And don’t tell me,

He was trying to protect me,

When he locked me in,

The supply closet.

I don’t want to hear,

You defend him,

And make up more excuses,

Of why he did,

Horrible things,

Because the truth is:

He was a bully,

And I can only hope,

To forgive him,

For being that,

Instead of a friend,

When I needed one.

 

 

You don’t deserve,

Her “sorry,”

Because she doesn’t even know,

Why she is saying it,

Anymore.

Is it her singing voice,

When her favorite song,

Comes on the radio?

Is it her messy ponytail,

Which she always,

Runs her hand through?

Or is it her crazy laugh,

Which draws people’s attention?

You can’t just,

Hate some things about her,

And claim to love the others,

As if that,

Makes up for,

The millions of “sorry’s,”

She says,

When she is apologising,

For a part of her,

You dislike.

 

All my life I was treated,

By my older brother’s friends,

Just like a tag-along,

Younger boy,

So I guess I never learned,

Like other girls did,

That once you pass age ten,

You can’t be who you want any more,

You have to be different,

And say different things,

And I guess I never noticed,

Even when my brother’s friends did,

That I was growing up,

And I couldn’t play with them,

Anymore.

It was like a rule,

I had never learned,

While romping in the woods,

With them,

Or tapping my pencil,

On my desk,

In a classroom.

It was puzzling,

Because they stopped treating me,

Like they always had,

And started treating me,

Like something totally alien.

There now was a wall,

I couldn’t breach,

Of words and thoughts,

All about crushes,

And coolness,

And thing’s I’d never learned.

I guess this happens,

To every girl,

Who grows up with boys,

But I just didn’t expect it,

To happen so fast,

I thought I had more time,

To be me.

But,

Other things were in play,

And I had to grow up,

And leave my friends,

Behind,

In the world,

That I had once,

Occupied.

 

 

 

I once knew a girl,

Who loved her mirror,

More then anyone else,

In her life.

Every day,

She would stand in front of it,

Wearing fashionable,

And beautiful clothes,

And she would say,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Am I pretty at all?”

And the mirror only frowned,

And said to her,

“No.”

So she cried,

Then dried her face,

And went to school.

Everything seemed fine,

Picture Perfect almost,

So no one questioned,

When her clothes started,

To hang off her,

And her eyes sunk into her face,

As she asked,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Why do I feel so small?”

The mirror said,

“You are not small,

You are fat,

And big.”

So she cried again,

And went to school,

Wearing baggy clothes,

Because she thought,

That those hid her figure,

And while her fashionable friends laughed,

And everyone stared,

She kept her face to the ground,

And didn’t say a word.

The next time she asked,

Was two weeks later,

When she was wasting away,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Who will listen when I call?”

The mirror only said,

“No one. So don’t.”

She didn’t even have,

The feeling to cry,

As she stared with empty eyes,

At the mirror,

Which had dictated,

Her life.

She took a deep breath,

Then another,

Before saying,

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Why do people stare in the hall?”

The mirror reply was,

“Doesn’t everybody,

Stare at something so ugly?”

Her head was down,

And she didn’t seem,

To have any hope,

As she remembered,

The words her mother,

Once told her,

“Don’t worry about the mirror,

Don’t worry about the looks,

Because people only stare,

When they see something,

Completely beautiful.”

She wondered what,

Her mother would say,

If she saw,

Her daughter now,

And with that thought,

In her mind,

She said,”Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

I don’t believe you anymore.”

She wondered why,

She had failed to realize,

That a mirror,

Twists ones words,

And thoughts,

Just like it spelled,

The words on a piece,

Of paper,

Which she held up,

Backwards.

“I am beautiful.”

But now,

She actually believed it.

When she went,

To school again,

She wore the clothes,

She wanted,

And said,

What she wanted to.

She let her opinions out,

And made better friends,

Her grades rose,

And her spirirt did too,

So now mirror,

Were you correct?

Was she nothing?

No,

“Mirror Mirror on the wall,

I don’t believe you at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

Yes,

I saw you gossiping,

With your awful,

All-the-same friends,

So no need,

To act like you are my friend,

When I need someone next.

You don’t have to pretend,

That you didn’t write,

Horrible things on my locker,

In sharpie,

And tape hate notes on it,

Every other day.

Some people call me naive,

Because I look for the best,

In every one,

And that may be true,

But it still hurts,

That I trusted you.

So when you and your barbies,

Laugh at me next,

And spread rumors around school,

I hope you know,

That no one I care about,

Is listening to those lies.

Because all my friends,

Who I truly trust,

Never met you.

Mainly because

I made them,

After you left me,

Down and in the dumps.

They didn’t laugh,

Or tease,

Or judge,

They covered my locker,

In positive sharpie writing,

And doodles.

They do funny things in the hall,

And have piggyback rides,

To the car line,

Which makes me laugh,

More than your sickly jokes,

Ever did,

So,

You never won,

Because I,

Got the greatest treasure of all:

Friends,

Who never believed,

Lies that were spread,

By a liar.

 

I get weird looks,

When I wear my baseball cap,

And favorite baggy sweatshirt,

Like there is some unwritten rule,

In this society,

That says girls should only wear,

Form-fitting clothes,

Like skinny jeans,

And crop tops,

That show a little skin.

Tight shirts,

And short shorts.

It’s like the clothes you wear

Equal your beauty,

And you’re nothing without.

Your wild laugh,

Your crazy hair,

And the little skip-jump way you walk,

Is nothing,

Because apparently,

Your body is what is,

Suppose to be beautiful.

There’s no questioning why,

Because I’ve tried,

And it seems that the answer,

Is obvious:

Your body is deemed,

The most beautiful part of you.

So flaunt it for show,

Do what is expected of you,

And never question why:

Society says,

Your body is,

The most beautiful part of you.

If you don’t fit in,

And wear funky clothes,

That are full of personality,

And quirk,

Then it is clear,

That you are not,

Considered beautiful.

You might be considered bold,

Or perhaps spirited,

But no one will really think,

That your body is,

The most beautiful part of you.

I wonder when things because twisted,

That you are not beautiful,

Unless your body is skinny,

Or curvy,

Or flawless,

No one likes freckles,

At least that is what,

I’ve been told,

And they only mar your skin,

To take away,

What beauty they might have seen.

I’m tired of seeing certain parts of me,

As imperfections,

And seeing others shot down,

For the same reasons,

Because I think it’s time to question,

Why people don’t consider me,

Beautiful,

Because I weigh more,

And freckles are on my skin.

And my friends I’ve seen cry,

In the bathroom,

Because they wear different clothes,

And have different colored skin.

Because their eyes are a little slanted,

Or their face not powdered with make-up.

Why are they not considered beautiful?

I wear comfortable clothing,

And will not change that,

For anyone,

So if society doesn’t think,

Me beautiful,

Then I know,

My friends do,

Because I’ve seen,

The dark corners of schools,

Where the outcasts cry,

And go about with empty eyes,Beautiful

The people who dye their hair,

Because it wasn’t considered beautiful,

When it was natural,

And who cake on make-up,

Because they are not considered beautiful,

Without.

I’m tired of finding,

Beautiful people in the corners,

Catching dust,

When they should be,

Allowed to feel beautiful,

And be themselves,

Without having society,

Saying no.

Tilt up your chin girl,

You have a beauty,

That can’t be mocked,

Or hidden away.

Don’t worry about what they say,

In the weight room boy,

Because the football team still stinks,

While you are in Honors.

Don’t listen to society,

When it picks and pokes,

To find the ones,

Who it thinks can shine,

When they don’t see,

Being fooled by the brighter shine,

That you were beautiful all along,

And you just have to be,

Yourself,

In order to see that too.