And then the golden girls whispered that I was a child.
That I had to grow up.
And I would go home and eat.
Throw everything in a pan.
I didn’t know how to cook.
And I would hold my friendship-book and tear the pages out.
Then I would look at my face in the mirror and forget my smile.
Then they looked at my body getting undressed before the swimming lesson.
I became the creator of excuses, and even though I loved swimming,
I never went again because their gaze never left my skin.
I thought I had to dye my hair, erase the roots, the colour, the truth.
That’s what girls can do to other girls.
But they don’t know, don’t understand, the imposed vicious circle.
I would expose my skin, paint my face, everything in disharmony.
And then I would eat and eat and eat.
Because they made me feel so empty, so wrong, so inaccurate.
I stuffed my stomach, so I couldn’t feel my heartbeat.
So I’d fall asleep. With the weight on my heart.
The colours on my skin. My clothes too tight.
Their voices never cease. You’re a child. You’re a whore.
They just can’t make up their minds. And I kept erasing pages.
Nobody taught me about the sad girls, The bad ones. The mistreated ones.
The sickness starts, of friendships, of misfits, choosing the devil.
They all hold hands and bite their tongue in disguise, despising.
I wanted to look like them. Their ugliness radiating from within.
The golden girls. The attention-getters. The non-succeeders.
I looked up to them and down on myself.
And whilst I was thinking about losing my weight, become thinner, I ate and I ate.
The happiness ceased with the last bite.
Sex is easy, The golden girls don’t get a bad reputation.
They broke my heart and still shine and continue to shine.
I let them deform me. I let them give me names.
I let them exclude me, laugh at me, my friends, the horde.
When I realised that I had been all alone all along in the worst way,
I set foot into the water, ate thinking about myself, and swam against the stream.
“Desdemona” by Edwin Austin Abbey (1852-1911)