When I analyse myself


I see many things.

I put that red lipstick on

For you.

I wear a cleavage

For you.

I laugh at jokes I don’t understand

For you.

I try to walk in heels

For you.

I try to act as though I’m adored

For you.

I try to change my hair in a million ways

For you.

I freeze because I wear close to nothing

For you.

My skin is invisible beneath the make-up I put on

For you.

You tell me a lot of women are cheap whores.

You tell me that I look like them and I shouldn’t

As your daughter.

And when I don’t,

I look at you staring at them all

Following every step of your thoughts

And it’s not compatible.

And I become invisible to you, as I am, truly

As you devour these women with your eyes,

These women who you claim to hate.

And I think I’ve found my parameters of love

And the faces that I need to put on

In order not to go unseen

And I lose sight of everything that counts as myself.


“Leda” by Gustav Klimt (1862-1918)

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