The Beauty and Brains Are Nothing Without the Body

I'm having so many feelings lately. Mainly ones that knock me to my knees. There's a little part of me that thinks I'm the most amazing woman in the world, but the loud, overbearing bitch that tells me I'm not enough won't shut her her friggin' mouth.

And you know what? That voice isn't me. It's every other person in the world. It's mankind. Since birth, I have been told to be quiet. Be polite. Be accommodating. Be friendly. Be pretty. Be thin. Be smart, but not too smart. 

And most importantly, the beauty and the brains mean nothing without the body. 

The stretch marks on my hips negate the smile on my lips.
All the good, all those wins mean nothing if I'm not thin.

I can't even express to you how much I hate my body. How much I fight it, how much bitterness it causes me. I lather it will creams and tanner. I work it to exhaustion at the gym. I suffocate it in a vice of a corset, all trying to change the thing God gifted me. This thing that houses my soul, that grew two beautiful boys, that carries a brilliant brain. From the moment we arrive on this earth, girls are told what to do, how to act, what to not say. We don't stand a chance. This is why we starve ourselves, why we try to cut the fat from our skin, why we stay with abusive men.

This isn't a plea for compliments. I don't want to hear, but you're so athletic and toned! Your boobs are to die for! This isn't the body that I want, and that isn't why I wrote this. I want to you know that you're not the only one who struggles, who feels bad about yourself and then eats entire sleeve of Oreos.  And then hates yourself more. 

And I'm tired. I'm just so tired of never being enough. I'm tired of struggling. All that I want is an acknowledgment, a helping hand, a hot young, boyfriend.

A touch.

I'm going to die alone, with my apartment smelling like cat piss and birthday cake. I wrote a poem about it, but I stuck it in another post because it didn't really go here. http://laurenmarchand.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-touch.html

A Touch

A Touch

My hands were balled into fists,
Afraid to touch anything, scared of a kiss,
Of fingertips across my spine.
The world was colorless. Nothing was mine.

Then he uncurled my fingers, held on tight,
Touched me in the darkness. Awoke the light.
My hands were for more than just dishes and chores.
They loved, held his heart, his core.

But life pulled him from my grasp.
Winter retuned. The emptiness will not pass.
My fingers turned inward, resting against my palm.
Touching no one, nothing, still now, lost in the calm.

And again these hands are empty, longing for a caress.
But they are busy now, sifting and sorting through the mess.