When you look at me, am I just another sex toy sitting pretty on the shelf? Do you just see me batting my eyelids and kneeling down before you? When I march into battle, all you seem to see are my long legs. When I speak my mind, all you seem to see are my soft lips.
When you look at me, do you think of what’s beneath my skin or just beneath my skinny jeans? Do you wonder what it would be like to be my good friend, and laugh with me until we piss ourselves, and never once feel sexually attracted to each other? Or do you prefer your fantasies to my reality? After all in your head, all I am is something to make you oh so happy, all I am is something to please you.
Well I have news for you, if you didn’t realize it before.
Sometimes, I walk around barefoot in the dirt, and my feet get all dusty and cracked.
Sometimes, I sit at home clicking next on Netflix and eating ice cream in my pajamas, because I have a headache and a cough that sounds like a seal in pain.
Sometimes, I sit on the toilet and relieve myself, not reading Seventeen or Teen Vogue or some other dumb piece of crap with Taylor Swift on the cover, no, I read the National Geographic article on child slavery in Africa, because lets face it, that’s ten times more interesting than One Direction and this month’s makeup tutorials that you’ll never be able to recreate.
Sometimes I jump into the swimming pool in a one-piece swimsuit, with goggles over my eyes.
Sometimes I step out of my house with signs and pussy hats, and march down to respect the women who fought to get me where I am today, my mother and grandmother and even my great-great-grandmother who, in 1921, became the first woman in her family to go to college.
Sometimes I’m happy with myself, and funny enough, I don’t need your commentary on my looks, on my body; I never asked for your opinion, I don’t need you to call me sexy or not, as if it’s a question, as if I was wondering if I really was beautiful. If I was wondering if I was beautiful, I would go to my friends who know what it’s like to be objectified, and who would verify me so much better than you ever could.
I don’t blame you for thinking I’m sexy, because I know I am. I blame you for thinking that’s all there is to it.