Author Information
8th Grade
I hate the feeling that from the moment I was born I was betrothed to this world and it’s men. Everyday I walk down the street and boys in their underwear, with their pants pulled up over their scraped up knees, shout at me. They call me over, like they own me, like I’m a prize they’ve already won simply by being born male. They grab me like their entitled.
All the other girls seem to live for the groping, to be validated by those greasy, self-assured hands to tell them they’ve done well. It nauseates me. The girls slather on their makeup and drown themselves in perfume, whilst stopping by the bathroom every fifteen minutes to stare in the mirror and scoop their breasts up higher in the ultra stuffed, push-up bras. They sport glittery, orange skin and plastic coated claws.
In the end they can’t escape hating themselves. The boys move on to new victims or just grope themselves instead, while the girls subject themselves to poisonous procedures and bone-altering surgeries in a last desperate attempt to find something that was never there in the first place. They’ll never find their self worth in sex, no matter what they look like or who they sleep with. Validation is a dangerous treasure.
I swear that will never be my life. I am my own person, my own master and my future is wide open. The infinite horizon where the sun kisses the tree line is where I turn my boots towards.
