Blondeshell

a show pony. a dime piece. a prized possession. 

On the days that I decide to embrace my feminine charm and do my hair and makeup and wear something that accentuates the delicate I always encounter the same problem, people stop seeing me and only see my attraction. 

They look to this carefully crafted facade and give high praise in my mastery of it. 

People stop and stare on the street, removing their sunglasses for a better look. 

Isnt this what every girl wants? to be viewed as this beautiful ethereal thing?

I dont anymore. But let me explain: 

Being a blonde haired blue eyed slim girl growing up meant that I got to wear dresses and sit still a lot while other people complimented me. I never remember being spoken TO in these situations, just AT. As if I was some art piece carefully arranged for everyone to admire. I was constantly presented for approval from society and grew to understand that this was my worth. My face and hair and body. I became obsessive about keeping all of these in check. I always need to lose weight or fix my face or brush my hair. I constantly check myself in mirrors or reflective surfaces to gauge my progress for the day. My outward gifts were more valuable than my inner ones. This lesson was reinforced over and over again. My father would present me to people at any number of events, stating a list of things I had done as if reading from a description box in a gallery. My audience would than comment on my beauty and how it was a credit to my parents. I was never asked for an opinion or statement. Nothing more than my crafted face was needed. 

But beauty comes with its curses( if Disneys taught us anything). Because of looks I could not go outside at certain hours, I could not go to certain places regardless of who i was with and I could definitely never be alone outside of my home.I was told it was for my own safety, I was constantly under threat of rape/kidnapping/death. It wasnt a matter of IF those things were to happen but WHEN.Because of the way I look was the justification for implementing these fears. I fear everyone because art doesnt fight back when its insulted. Art can be vandalized. 

The first time I realized what it meant to look like me stands out among the other pubescent memories. I was shopping for groceries with my dad at Krogers. It was a last minute thing and I had left the house in what I had been wearing all day, a simple cami and jeans. And although the cami was tight and showed an inch of midriff, I had no breast whatsoever or curves to speak of.I had never felt uncomfortable wearing this around family or my neighborhood friends.  As we walked down the ice cream aisle I walked ahead of my father in my anticipation of wonderful ice cream choices. Some college aged boys passed down the aisle. I thought nothing of it. My dad caught up to me and began acting strange, clipped sentences and downcast eyes. When we got home he confronted my mother for letting me dress “that way” that it was inappropriate and bringing unwanted attention from older men. They tried to shoo me out of the room so I wouldnt hear their discussion about MY body and MY clothing. When I asked what I had done wrong my dad said that the boys were talking to themselves and saying “what else should we get?” than saw me “id like to get one of those” and than chuckled among themselves.To this day I still think they were talking about pie or something.But my father insisted, and the more he spoke the more I felt like it really was my fault. He did not say this in a protective manner as to inform me. He said it with disgust. He appeared disgusted at my body and this role that I was born to play: object. But the thing is, I had no idea that those boys had said anything about me or thought anything. I was just a young kid who wanted ice cream. But after my dads reaction I was now something else entirely, a thing. Something to be ogled at and argued over. to be controlled and reined in. I had no say in the matter. Now as a young woman of 20 much much worse things have been said to me on the street. But I always take it. Because thats what I have been taught to do, be a piece of art. Take what people are saying AT me and smile. Always smile. 

I hate dressing up because it puts me back in this space of being an object or art piece. By adhering to what society is calling attractive I feel that I am allowing this environment to happen to me. Its created this strange paradox within me. Some days I cry and dont want to leave the house because I feel disgusting and not worthy of being looked at and other days I cry and dont want to leave the house because I feel to susceptible of being commented on that I become terrified. Its a weird world to live in. 

Ive sort of come to see my looks as my ace in the hole. Something I keep in my back pocket and pull out when I need it. I dont wear as much makeup as I used to and I put less effort into what I think I should be wearing. I shower much less obsessively. Its my own private rebellion against what the world wants me to be and act out.

I still have problems with hating myself. I justify it through thinking that if any artist had to walk around with their creation all day theyd hate it sometimes too. 

This is my experience and my feelings. Im not trying to speak for all women or make some sort of feminist statement. But just pointing out something that is central to who I am and the way I operate.

Asking little girls what theyre reading or thinking about would be a good thing though. just saying. 

No sleep.
Just rain rain rain.

My mouth taste like tomato soup.
Probably because I ate some.
Oops.

You’re reading this as a poem when it isn’t.
I just spaced it like one
I thought it was pleasant.

Pleasant doesn’t rhyme with isn’t
Or does it matter?
I didn’t rhyme pain with rain.
Too over done

I could rhyme storm with corn.
Maybe.
This isn’t a poem. So I can do whatever I want.

Which is what I almost always do anyway.
Stop making this a poem.
You’re projecting onto my thoughts your sad thoughts
You rhymed pain and rain.
Now you’ve ruined the stanzas

I think I’m a hermit. Or a recluse.
“artistic temperament” will take me far
People will think I’m interesting and engaging
But secretly. I’m nothing but dust. A small spec who has a chance to contribute to the world around it.
Contribute at most an idea.
No matter what you leave behind it will be forgotten or disproved or misinterpreted.
So why leave anything? Why not jut leave?
We are so obsessed with “leaving a legacy”
What if we didn’t?
What if we left things just how they were and no one remembered us
It wouldn’t matter to us.
We’re dust.
We become more dust
Dust that make people sneeze
Dust that housewives and mannys strive to eradicate

The wind keeps blowing my door opened and I’m terrified.
No sleep
Just rain
No sleep just pain

You made me do that.
I have to deliver. That’s what walking wombs are for.

You probably think I’m trying to be artistic
But I dont have to try
Now you think I’m being rude
I don’t have to Be.

I hate you and don’t want you
But I like the attention
Why did you read this?
Why are you still?

It’s
Over
Now