Why are you giving your life to them?

Why you’d rather a body that ‘looks’ controlled than a body that looks lived-in.

Don’t you think it’s odd?
That we care more about what we look like,
Than what we look at?

Don’t you think it’s troublesome,
That we listen more to the negative voices in our head,
Than we do our best friends stories?

Don’t you question the logic,
That we care more about a partner desiring us,
Than we do, if we even really want them?

If someone asked,
Tell me your ‘happy weight’,
We’d answer within seconds.

If someone asked,
What do you need for to be sexually satisfied?
We’d be left stifled.

Don’t you think it’s strange, then?
That we are living for all of these things,
None of which are for ourselves?

But the pleasure of others,
Comfort of others,
Desire of others.

We’re only here once,
And so many of us,
We’re missing the point.

We are here to be messy,
Not nicely presented and so well-behaved,
But actually, completely us.

To come before he does,
Without the performance,
And to enjoy the pizza afterward.

We are here to have a body that looks indeed,
Like it has lived a life,
Not one that is controlled beyond measure.

We are here not to apologise for being weird and flawed and mistaken and wrong,
But to own our own mess,
Not criticise ourselves for being exactly that.

We are here to eat when we’re hungry,
And stop when we’re full,
Or when something is too delicious to leave.

We are not here to follow the rules of industry, our parents or men,
Trusting anything but ourselves,
But to put our needs first (at least not last).

Don’t you think it’s odd,
That we accept all of these things,
As if they’re a given of women?
Don’t you think it’ll be heartbreaking when we’re 80,
And wake up and finally realise,
We lived our entire life for them?

That we could have had the cake all along,
And exercised for the health and the fun,
Had mind-blowing sex (even silently)?

When we die and say,
I wish I lived my life for me,
Won’t it be odd, when we knew all long?