I am digested.

I am digested.

I am spit up.

I am a woman.

There are times where I second guess if I should wear a certain item of clothing, in fear that I will be catcalled, gawked at, or given shakes of the head from others because I want to wear something that flaunts what I was born with; a human body. When is it over? When can I go through my day to day without wondering if I am capable of being a success in the world when, according to the media, all I’m suppose to worry about is my new waist trainer. Why do I need to look more like a woman when I was a born a woman? Shouldn’t I, a mere size 12 female be considered feminine?

No.

 

No, I am told that my shoulders are too broad, my thighs are too large, and my hands are too chubby to be considered delicate, small, and “feminine”. But after all, wasn’t I born with enough reproductive organs, identical to those models on your magazine? Then am I not, in fact, a woman and everything defined as a woman?

Or

Or maybe I don’t want to be considered a woman. In fact, I don’t. I want to be a person. A person who constantly wears all black, a person who has stretch marks on her stomach, a person who has dreams and goals and is actually doing something to pursue those dreams and goals.

I want to be a person. Not a woman.

I want the world to look at me like I am worth everything in the world because I am a person. Or maybe, just maybe, I want the world to look at woman as people. We are living, breathing beings, we are not objects, we are humans of different colors and shapes and talents.

I want to be a woman who is treated like a person.

I found it. I found the words I want to sing to a nation that is so obsessed with the new IPhone, but isn’t capable of comprehending women’s rights.

I am digested.

I am spit up.

I am a woman.

Sanctuary in Orlando

Sanctuary in Orlando

The Art of Faking Beauty