Wednesday, November 12, 2014


My pretty doesn’t concern you.
I just want to say it once so you know.
My pretty isn’t what women have fought for.
My pretty means nothing among the women who I call my friends.

My pretty or lack there of, is nothing of meaning, it holds no worth.

My pretty won’t pay the bills.
My pretty didn’t get me an education.
My pretty won’t comfort me at the end.
My pretty didn’t get me where I am.

My face is something to me because it is mine, all mine.
It makes me, me.
It’s not yours.
It never will be.

My pretty is secondary to my heart, to my humor, to my loyalty.

I never wrote in journals that I wanted to be pretty.
I never plotted out my career around my pretty.
I never got a job because of my pretty.
I never wanted to grow up to be pretty.
I never liked being called pretty, by my lovers or friends.

I’m a god damn vision.
I’m a wolf.
If you tell a wolf she’s pretty or not, she doesn’t care,
she’ll still rip out your throat and stand over your body.
Covered in blood, pretty was never a priority. 

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