like the other girls.
Sick of being sent into battle against the other girls,
sick of being taught to hate the other girls,
sick of the deep sickness of internalised misogyny,
that makes its way deep under your skin,
painting hatred through the veins,
until you are poisoned.
Grasping at your throat,
alone in the dark,
surrounded by the realisation that this war had no meaning,
because your enemy was a mirror,
or a magazine,
that picked out your flaws,
to sell you a dream that could never come true.
Your enemy was a world that tells girls what to do,
how to speak,
how to dress.
“Be meek, little girls” the world says,
while stabbing us in the back because we’re too plain,
because we’re too ashamed to speak up for ourselves.
They want us meek,
but they never really clarify what that means,
because it changes from girl to girl,
and order to order,
and I’m starting to think it means nothing it all.
just like the other girls.
I am sick of being told that there is something wrong with the other girls.
I don’t even think that there are “other girls”.
I think we are all just girls,
powerful and so full of potential,
that it sends lightning to the spineless,
so they desperately fight to control us,
keeping us locked in the dark,
fighting amongst ourselves.