My body offends

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I am too fat.

I am not the right size,

I’m not the right shape.

I didn’t know there was such a thing

As shapes I had to fit into.

Manufactured mannequins,

Welcome to manufacturing woman.


Standards need to be met.

They tell me what to wear.

Be stylish. Be sexy.

The skirt is too short. The top too transparent.

Makeup too loud. Heels too high.

Do you want to be called a slut?




Cover up.

Cover myself up. Cover my head.

Not stylish. Being oppressed.

Lose the scarf. Show some skin.

Who are you afraid of?


What’s wrong with you? Smile.

But, don’t talk.


Too tall. Too fat.

Too short. Too skinny.

Too booby. Flat-chested.

Long hair. Short hair.

Tie up your hair.

Leave them open.


Don’t attract the men.

Attract the men.

You need to get married.

But, don’t look like you are trying too hard.


Why don’t you go to the gym?

You need to work out.

You need to eat this and eat that.

How can you even think of eating a burger?

Starve. Be skinny.

Not that skinny.


Tattoo? No tattoo.

Not allowed. But, it’s cool.

Don’t get the stamp.

Why are you not having a baby?

What do you mean you don’t want to?

What’s wrong with your body?

How dare you feed your child in public?

You look like a mess.


Dress up.

Dress up for work.

Dress up for success.

Dress up for weddings.

Dress up for a date.



Rinse. Repeat.



More outrage.

I am seen. But, I am not heard.

I am a woman.

I exist to please.

To confirm.

To constantly offend.

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