FreddieM

I sit in my room scrolling through Pinterest admiring all the gorgeous honey brown and auburn locks that pepper the screen,
I sigh when I suddenly see myself from the third-person view, cringing at the sight.
My greasy hair sits unwillingly on my shoulders complementing my cellulite thighs, I look down at them and plead with my mind not to hate the things society argues are invalid.

I remind myself that I owe beauty to no one and that happiness can be found without the tiny waist I so desperately want.
I remind myself that it's my own internalized male gaze that suggests that I am not enough to be desired.
I remind myself of all the breath-taking figures of femininity overflowing art museums with their soft jawlines and chubby tummies’.
I remind myself that I was once desired by many men throughout history.
But I wonder if I even long to be desired by them, why should I feel the need to cater to their perverted stares and piggish sniggers?
I wonder if I want to be seen in that feminine way,
Seen as that small delicate girl worthy of love? Worthy of protection and flattery?
Do I want the love of a man or do I desire to be desired by one?
I remind myself that the rosy feeling of being desired and admired is not love nor affection.

Once again, I try to find comfort in my mountain of pillows and blankets, that I might be enough.
That I might find the sweet peachy warmth, that little girls dream of in their fairy-tale.