or when i plead you to stop photoshopping your characters

teenage boys smell of sweat and cheap deodorant

- not of potpourri and metaphors.

they've got endless arms and frayed cardboard hands,

as if they were made from leftovers that don't match.

they still have to grow into their body

the way they have to grow in to their sneakers as well

- some are impractically tall,

have to stoop when they walk through the door frame,

while others've got short bodies that refuse to grow 

no matter how much spinach they eat.

they've got voices that skip 

as if they're being remixed by invisible hands.

they've got zits on their temples, their hairline, their shoulders, their noses

and disobedient freckles that make them look like fifth graders.

they've either got short, stubbly eyelashes

or those enviable thick ones they can barely see through.

they laugh and lean and cry and shine.

(why would you censor them?)

teenage girls have shiny noses and stretchmarks.

they've got space between their front teeth or showy braces

as if their mouths were filled with diamonds.

their lips will be chapped when you see them in wall-mart next december.

they've got a stubble around their ankles and peach fuzz on their upper lip.

their hair gets fuzzy when they leave their umbrellas at home,

even if they drench it with hairspray.

their nails burst and break when they open cans of coke

they then proceed to drink with mild feelings of guilt.

their butts and breasts move when their run

- marble women belong in musea and they, they are not chiseled.

they blush and bleed and dance and fall 

(why would you censor them?)

no flabby mom bellies, no crow's feet are spared.

where are the C-section scars?

where's the cellulite?

where's the greying, receding hair?

where are the bushy eyebrows?

where are the beer bellies?

where's the asymmetry?

where's the reality?

you paint her over.

you write her over.

we've got eyes that glow in the dark and

teeth that creep in front of each other like tectonic plates.

we've got dimples in our chins and too visible ribs

or round hips no jeans can handle.

we stare and fear and write and read.

we're not made of synesthesias and favourably kneaded clay.

we're made of fat and skin and bones and blood.

(why would you censor us?) 

✿✿✿✿✿

a/n: this is a quick translation of a dutch piece i wrote a while ago and i still think it's very important. dedicated to @tranquilities for being really cool, so glad i got to know you yesterday. thanks for being my hundredth follower! plus, we're at #46 in poetry??!! Thank you, thank you, thank you.