You’ve heard them say it countless times
Put on make-up to be “beautiful”
You’re a lady
Stand up straight
“Don’t wear skirts or tank tops”
Or the boys will get distracted
“Don’t eat too much” but
Confine yourself to the media’s
Version of what a woman
SHOULD be
Don’t be confident in yourself
And walk with your head low
“You’re not special
You’re like everyone else I know”
Don’t cut your hair too short
“Do you wanna be a boy?!”

Or maybe you have heard the other
Put on a fake smile
As you go about your day
Sadness is Weakness
And crying makes you less of a man
Don’t wear “girly” colors
Or you are “too feminine”
Refusing risks
Makes you a wimp

“Be a man”
They say
But what does that even mean
Don’t do things you love
But force yourself to
Throw on that jersey
How dare you want to
Pursue your dreams

Women can’t do this
Men can’t do that
All wrapped up in bubble wrap
Loving yourself?
What’s that?
Change yourself in ways
That deem YOU “perfect”
In the eyes of the world

But what does that word even mean?
Is a bird less perfect if it loses a feather?
Or a lizard less of a reptile when it sheds its skin?
The beach less of a beach when the tide roles in?
NO

I watch the world around me
Boys and girls of all ages
Being conformed to their gender roles
Hunted like the prey of a lion
Society stalking their every move
Making sure nothing is out of place

Who cares what the world thinks is “Perfect”
The absent minds of the world around us
Cannot be changed
Normal to you is not normal to them
Being “weird” is better than being generic
You are beautiful just the way YOU are
You are beautiful
You are perfect
You are…
YOU!

I never know when it's safe to talk.
I never know when it's safe to show cleavage.
My male friends disappear when claimed by other woman's love.
The streets are not safe.
The nights are not safe.
Internet is not safe.
Talking to a commited friend isn't safe.
When you are a woman it's hard to find a place to exist and be who you are.
There's jealosy, there's lust, there's wickedness, there's confusion.
There's loneliness.

Bedroom’s painted fisherman’s blue

There’s a cut out of Hayden Panettiere naked in a pink bikini with a hula-hoop on the back of the door

Copies of British Vogue desperately hidden underneath the bed accompanying an empty bottle of Glen’s

Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillows to boot

The bin’s filled with pre-packed home-made lunches from the last six months

Wardrobes a collection of ill fitting blue jeans bought for me by grandmother and football jerseys for teams that I’ve never even heard of, yet let alone see play a single game

Uniform ironed and sitting out ready for school on Monday at 8am sharp

***** clothes cover mostly all the floor smelling of Lynx’s finest even though there’s an empty laundry basket just waiting in the corner to be used

Inside one of the woolen blazer’s (that is way too big for me) pockets a single unopened ****** and an AES 256-bit encrypted USB stick

An old PlayStation 2, with a single controller; games including FIFA years through 2004 to now, Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell, and GTA.

Blood red shoplifted lipstick that’s now melted hidden in the little secret compartment at the back, meant for network expansion.

Artemis Fowl, Alex Rider, and Harry Potter all adorn the bookcase

Physics, Maths, and IT textbooks remain firmly closed on the desk in addition to a smashed phone from me and Daddy’s last “physical altercation”

Lady Gaga’s “I Like it Rough” is playing in the background on repeat…

I was raised a woman, or a girl. At most points there's no discernible difference. You are equally as responsible for your mistakes as any adult, when they look at your face and see your eyes looking down.

I know what I am to the people around me. Still a woman, still a girl. In public I am an oddity, to be quietly pushed aside so as not to cause disturbance, nobody looking my way.
In spaces advertised to be for 'people like me' I am forgotten, spoken over, casually instigated, dismissed again and again and I will not stop.
In my world in the quiet of my little room, I punch at the keyboard and pull at the stylus and squeeze feeling and memory out of my head and onto the screen.

I was raised a woman, or a girl. I keep my eyes looking down and my figure curled in, and the oppressive slow beat of society pushes in on me and begs to be torn apart with cymbals and flute.
I am used to blades sheathed in fuzzy pink faux fur
Wielded by someone who says we should be friends, because we're just so similar
As a girl I was taught that my death was expected, much more than any other's
As a boy I am a traitor, walk into traffic, jump off a roof, shut my mouth, go die
It's just the same as ever, so what
was
the
point?

Digging in with both hands I'll take whatever strength I have left and throw it back at you
A recursive bomb made of hate and my remains
A voice that isn't mine calls out apologies
But none of that now
What did you think would happen?

Did you think you were helping?

I'm going to live, just to spite you
These meaningless words I'll pitch into a landfill to be ignored once more
It's not new.

cw: domestic abuse

Despite being a girl,
I’ve always liked
video games
with the

bright colors,
challenges,
stories, and
heroes.

I used to prefer books
as I had more imaginary freedom
over the characters and scenery
until I learned my mom was screaming for him to stop.

But really,
the sound effects in video games
are amazing.
I feel like I’m my character!

Moreover, the music
for this game
makes me feel like
I really can save the world.

If I can save
their world,
then why can’t I
save ours?

I’ll study well,
make a vaccine,
save endangered wildlife from extinction,
solve world hunger.

I want to be a nameless hero
just like my favorite characters
who do it simply out of responsibility
instead of fame or fortune.

If I just
leave
my bedroom…
Can I really do anything

if I can’t even
save
my mom
from one man?

"Save the galaxy by…"
My character chimes.
No!
I’ll do it this time.

I’m done being a little kid.
I’ll save her.
But
how?

No book
video game
or class
has taught me how to save my mom.

The feelings
are returning now.
Dread, agony, and disgust materializes
as I recognize my face in the mirror.

Silence.
There is no character theme
if I disregard the sound of my mom crying.
Instead, I observe the boring figure in the mirror with no sharp angles or colors.

He left when I was deep within the pool of self-loathing,
claiming he’d get himself something to eat
as us women haven’t prepared food for weeks,
shelves bare.

When I leave my room for the first time in days,
my mom greets me with a smile,
pretending like she wasn’t just crying.
“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Sweetheart,” she says, voice wavering.
I can smell him on her.
“Do you mind making him food to eat?”
“No.” I reply as I peer into the empty cupboards.

dear quinn,

goodbyes are hard
but staying will be harder
just let go

it's okay

love,
atlas