It sucks, that’s all,
and I use the word “sucks”
like any adolescent teenager
complaining about their grade
on their recent Algebra exam that
they hardly studied for—
it sucks,
for the lack of a better adjective,
that society has corrupted
so many young and growing girls
to thinking that they need to be
a certain shape, appear a certain way,
have their hair a certain length,
dress to a certain type of code,
just to be loved,
to be adored,
to be “beautiful”,
it sucks that collarbones need to show,
or if your hipbones aren’t protruding at a certain angle,
then you must be consuming too many daily calories—
and it sucks that some will value the number of calories
over their level of cholesterol.
It sucks
that thighs needn’t touch
and cheekbones should ever be so shallow,
for beauty to display,
rather gaunt and hollow.
It sucks
for the sad girls on sad nights,
when doughnuts and ice cream
is and should be
the solution,
but will only make sad, sadder.
It sucks
that beauty has been stripped of
true substance,
inner resistance to what meets
society’s standards,
it sucks because I am completely
a victim,
or rather less— I perpetuate,
I self-inflict and am self-inflicted
of all of these things,
and I am trying
yet I still believe
girls who are none of these things,
are the most beautiful.
Half the time,
I don’t know if I miss it—
The jokes and
conversations with
your mouth half-full
sticking French fries up
eachother’s nose,
purposely wrapping limbs
and joints in the most difficult way
possible,
just to get tangled.
I don’t know if I miss
the late night rendezvous,
having a sanctuary be the inside
of a car that always smelled
like smoke,
talking for hours
inebriated or high
off of something.
Laying on our backs
in the middle of the street,
counting the seconds it takes
for the red to turn green,
the tip toeing barefoot
on fences that read no trespassing,
I don’t know if I miss it at all.
The naming the stars we couldn’t
even see, the hours we spent
loitering on concrete,
the plans we made, the future
we swore,
the walls we built that kept
everyone out,
that best friend type of
admiration, affection, love.
The softest affliction,
the most violent and angry
and possessive
potential—
the madness it burned in
our threshold to forgive.
I don’t think I ever
want any of that, again.But I lost my best friend.
