you weren't happy when i covered myself so i removed my veil. you told me i was too thick, so i ate less and traded pounds for pounding headaches. you told me i need to be curvier, so i lifted until i was loose at the seams. i spent a year trying to compete with a pixelated image on your screen, until i realized i'm far from the magazines. i don't smile when strangers glare. i don't beg to be seen. my locks curl chaotically. i'm only heard when i scream. my thoughts sit still until they overflow like tears i was taught to suppress. i don't undress for an image, but i share my thoughts like a panorama because everything is okay behind a darkened screen. my experiences didn't make me, they broke me at 12. they taught me that men wear the amour and women are for everything in between. that we're cups half full and they're taking sips until we're polished clean.