I sit in my room scrolling through Pinterest admiring all the gorgeous honey brown and auburn locks that pepper the screen,
I sigh when I suddenly see myself from the third-person view, cringing at the sight.
My greasy hair sits unwillingly on my shoulders complementing my cellulite thighs, I look down at them and plead with my mind not to hate the things society argues are invalid.

I remind myself that I owe beauty to no one and that happiness can be found without the tiny waist I so desperately want.
I remind myself that it's my own internalized male gaze that suggests that I am not enough to be desired.
I remind myself of all the breath-taking figures of femininity overflowing art museums with their soft jawlines and chubby tummies’.
I remind myself that I was once desired by many men throughout history.
But I wonder if I even long to be desired by them, why should I feel the need to cater to their perverted stares and piggish sniggers?
I wonder if I want to be seen in that feminine way,
Seen as that small delicate girl worthy of love? Worthy of protection and flattery?
Do I want the love of a man or do I desire to be desired by one?
I remind myself that the rosy feeling of being desired and admired is not love nor affection.

Once again, I try to find comfort in my mountain of pillows and blankets, that I might be enough.
That I might find the sweet peachy warmth, that little girls dream of in their fairy-tale.
That I might find myself security and sanctuary in another person.

I have an epiphany while pinning a pretty pink dress on a size zero to my mood board.
I realize that I don’t need to limit myself to men, why on earth would I deny myself love just because of a social construct everyone swears by?
I find it absurd to think that someone spends their last days in a grey kitchen drying dishes because their beer drinking leech is watching sports.
That they are worthy of so much love but have refused to search for it in another variety of being,
Instead settling with a housewife persona they dread every morning, before biting themselves in the ass for their “ungratefulness”.
I would keep those poor souls in my prays if I believed in god, but I don’t.

I finally close the tab on my laptop with a sly smirk on my face, like a secret
only I know.
I sigh content with my train of thought and whisper a sweet “fuck you” to every Instagram post and pretty pink dress that convinced me I am not deserving of a fairy-tale.
Even if mine doesn’t have a prissy prince in it.
I giggle as I tiptoe my way to the kitchen in my granny shorts and oversized T.
Trying to decide whether I fancy pancakes or porridge for breakfast.

I shrug picking both because why limit myself.