ManicWorld Magazine

Imagine. 
What it’s like for a girl 
Crossing the parking lot at night, 
Clutching her car keys tightly within her hand 
As though that 2 inches of metal 
might be the thing that saves her life.

Imagine 
What it’s like for a girl 
Being told that a specialty nail polish 
Is the currency of her safety. 
And having people applaud 
this ingenuity, 
Instead of lamenting its necessity 
in the first place. 

Imagine what it’s like for a girl 
Who’s raised to believe her worth 
Is based on the size and amount 
of her clothes 
And that value changes depending on within who’s gaze she falls, and where theirs does as well.

Imagine 
What it’s like 
For a girl 
To grow up believing 
Her value is the inches she fills (Or doesn’t)
And silently cursing those arbitrary ticks on the waisted measuring tape 
Or that pressure on the scale. 
Stripping down layer 
….after layer 
…after layer 
till there’s nothing left but a pit in her still empty stomach. 
Because a higher number 
Means she takes up more space. Too much space. 
And her voice is not meant to carry that far 
or that conviction. 
Or anywhere at all. 
So she suffers in silence. 
And the tears spill, 
Quietly. 
But that’s ok –
Because maybe she’ll dry up 
Along with all those numbers. 
Shrivel into a nothingness: 
finally
worthy of the world again.

Imagine 
What it’s like 
For a girl raised to be just as good 
– as smart, as fast, as strong…. 
worth 
just 
as 
much 
And to be told bi-weekly by a dollar sign That it’s simply 
not 
true.

Imagine what it’s like 
For a girl 
told from birth:
These colours aren’t for her. 
It’s a Girl! 
So only pinks, no reds or blue. 
These toys, she can’t have. 
Frills or flowers are the only options And this doll: this is to what you should aspire. On display, and silent.
Not 
These sports. 
These microscopes or computers. 
These cars, 
Who’s crash test dummies are not, 
And have never been for her. 

Imagine 
Being born, with DNA, 
Already crossed off: 
-XX 
With a scalpel at the ready 
In her hand 
So she can remove all the wrong parts she’s been told Aren’t what she’s supposed to be. 
X. X. 
A cut here. 
A small cut there. 
Shoving herself into a cookie cutter, 
And slicing herself on the edges, 
But hey! 
It’s OK, 
at least she’s in the kitchen, right? 
She’ll just lose a little bit more. 
Of herself. 
Just shave a little more off the edges. 
Just another bite out of an already bleeding tongue.

And maybe 
–maybe–
then 
I’ll fit. 
Imagine…. 
Except that I don’t have to imagine. 
I’ve met the mirror 
I’ve seen the magazines 
I’ve watched the movies 
I’ve sang the songs 
I’ve followed that anorexic dream 
Of who I’ll never be. 
The shapes my body can’t make. 
I’ve put the scissors of self-loathing 
into my own hands 
more times than I can count. 
I’ve stuck the fingers down my throat
I’ve counted crunches to make up for what little food I forced myself to eat over the course of another day
counting steps. 
Progress 
But never in the right direction. 
Because I didn’t know it, 
But I was born with a sign: 
Please Automatically
And Instinctively 
presume, define, and label 
smaller 
second-best, 
lesser, 
weaker, 
too emotional 
<<Fill in Your Own Blank HERE>> 
…bitch….?
And begin to believe those things 
About myself 
Without even realizing. 
The cookie cutter has already 
pressed enough flesh from this 
naive, 
poor excuse for a girl. 
In her ill-fitting rags, with her buttons 
(for pressing or for sewing, nobody can really tell) 
And her freckles and pierced tongue. 
Because she foolishly believed the world when it said: you are lesser. And it became an endless echo, 
whenever she looked in the mirror. 
You don’t deserve to be here. 
You’ve 
ALL 
already told me 
that whatever it is…

I can’t. 

So I don’t have to imagine, 
Because I know.

And maybe anyone who doesn’t 
Should start. 
Because there’s a narrative that doesn’t just need to change, It needs to be blotted out and burned to ashes so we can all collect our thoughts and jackets at the door 
And Phoenix ourselves up off the dirty bathroom floor. 
And maybe somebody could finally explain 
How so many of us exist in this 
societally-enforced state of Mute 
And can still be asking for it.