The Fit – Haiku

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Here’s a pair of boots,

That I expect you’ll fit in.

Now walk the same path.

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Journal #55 – Happiest In My Skin

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Topic: I feel happiest in my skin…

             The coincidence is astonishing. I just shared a Ted Talk that I absolutely love called: “Looks Aren’t Everything,” by Cameron Russell. It’s one of my favorites because she is just so honest about her work and her own evaluation of the business of modeling. She knows of the long-standing social arcs that media lays upon. And she calls them out for it too.

           That’s a rarity nowadays. That level of honesty is what inspired me to create Honesty Hour. Yeah, I have yet to get someone else to join the bandwagon and do their own Honesty Hour, but maybe one day.

So, back to the prompt. I feel happiest in my skin when I’m on top of a mountain or cliff. I feel like I am on top of the world, and nothing is weighing me down. I know without a doubt that everyone has their insecurities. We look onto those that we prize as perfection, and we find it hard to believe that they are self-conscious too. To our minds, it is unfathomable. So what does that mean for one whose view of perfection is flawed? That they can never be perfect, in all honesty. That strive for perfection is the detrimental component though.

I know that, and I’ve known that for a while. My Women and Gender class made me more aware of it too, along with other social constructs and ideals like docility, objectification, hegemony, etc. I’m glad that I can point them out now. It’s useful knowledge to have.

      Does that mean I’m the most self-loving, confident-showcasing, self-esteemed girl i the world? No way. I love myself; I love myself for what I am, nothing more and nothing less. Every now and then I’ll take a step away from reality and shake under misconceived expectations of how I ought to look or appear, but that truly is only rarely. And that usually happens when I’m in a weird sort of low, or others stir this doubt in me, whether on purpose or not.

   Yes, I am happiest in my skin when I’m on top of the world below me. I can be covered in a layer of sweat and dirt, and even have a fro going on, but nothing beats knowing that I just conquered that tall feat. My skin rejoices as my mind soars to even higher of highs.

Gendered

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I’ll paint my nails,
I’ll wear the heels,
I’ll shop the sales,
And dress in teals.

Call me a girl;
Call me a trophe.
Place your ideals,
Then let me plead my appeals.

I can dress very feminine,
Or I can dress very boyish.
Why do others insist on judging it so,
When the girl they hardly know.

I don’t want to be gendered,
Or labeled, at that.
Though these words often go unheard,
I’ll start up the chat

From Stories to Ads

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She was twisted to an impossible angle.
Made out to be something gruesomely mangled.
Her smile was stapled;
A part of the fable,
That story of the perfect,
The ones without defect.

The girl who is plastered on walls,
Imposter of those princesses who attended such balls,
That movies depict,
To try to inflict,
That neediness deep down,
To be one of those clowns,
Who are frowning on the inside,
And pacified on the outside.

These walls surround,
Rather confound,
Teach us to be exactly what we see,
Even if it is something lesser than me.

Beauty

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I’ll show you beauty.
Let you play with it under a lens.
Watch you transform it into a science;
Into something far from it.

I’ll sit their amazed,
As you twist it and carve it,
Watching it slim into something much lesser in value.
You’ll be passionate and active,
So sure you’re making me proud.

But what you’ve made as your final design,
It isn’t beauty at all.
It’s flawed and damaged,
It’s misconstrued and harmful.

And you’ll say that I’m wrong;
Say that I’ve been alive too long,
To be able to judge beauty anymore.
But you have taken its essence, ripped it out of its core.
And now it is lifeless,
For now and forevermore.