A Thousand Paper Cuts Over Girlhood | Poetry
I’m back with some more poetry! I found a forgotten file of journal entries and poetry I was working on earlier this summer — more to come on the experience of being a woman and in love and the growing pains of change.
A Thousand Paper Cuts Over Girlhood
Written May 2024
Our bodies become the living relic of our lives. Every bruise intentionally placed by action, Long nights mirrored by the folds in our skin, Emotion etched into our flesh, Inconsequential moments leaving lasting scars. When I was a young girl, I got it in my head that scars were ugly, A silly, judgmental thought Lodged in my mind by a passing comment. A playground accident left lasting marks on my knees. “You can mark modeling off your list of career choices.” Being beautiful was no longer an option for me. And beautiful was modeled as best. If I can’t be the IT girl, Who am I supposed to be? Perceived perfection shattered, I am damaged goods. Because scars are messy, And no one has ever liked my mess. And people won’t like seeing me with them. The body keeps our score, And so does our subconscious. It was a thousand paper cuts over girlhood. “You should smile more.” I’ll deepen the furrow in my brow, Thank you. “Don’t do your hair up too big, people won’t take you seriously.” I can’t be glamorous and smart at the same time, Got it. At first I wasn’t pretty enough, Always something to fix, Someone else to be. And then, I was too pretty, The punching bag for your insecurities, And the hyper-fixation of your lust. “Wow, that outfit looks great on you.” Thank you for the fake smile and backhanded compliment. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.” Why do you have to compare me to validate my being? Beauty may be skin deep, Yet these scars latched on, Leaching my being of everything ME. “You attract too much attention.” I’ll dress down for your comfort. “Your intelligence makes me feel insecure.” I’ll pretend to not catch on. “You don’t have any personality.” You hated my hobbies. “You’re too emotional.” I’ll numb until I don’t feel anything at all. These, too, are the marks my body bares. Internal shame and external validation go hand in hand. The physicality of a woman can never escape the passing comments, Lodged in our beings like bullets in a drive by shooting. How many times will I betray my body? Condemning it for simply housing me? We try to be perfect, Equating our value to beauty and youth. We may try to stay forever young With creams and fads and plastic surgery, But those too leave lasting scars. With age, maybe we’re lucky enough to realize The ethereal perfection sold in magazines Is also a self conscious projection. A life lived for others isn’t a life I’m willing to live. Maybe its time to take back my perception of me. I actually don’t care what you think. The comments that once left me ragged are now the armor I wear. Breaking the facade of my own projected perfection, Unraveling the web of feelings and beliefs That encouraged me to act to please perception. I’ve realized how silly the dance is. We are so caught up in every single step. Executed with perfection, And without emotion. Anything more is too much, And anything less is not enough. You were the rock and I was the hard place. It’s the same cage we’re all trying to escape. Our options are endless, Hidden in plain sight. But first I had to learn Each perfected movement Creates a pattern. And pattern Next to pattern, Next to pattern, Creates an exquisite dance. The waltz is outdated, And ecstatic dance has always been there… I didn’t even realize that I was dancing! Funny how life is like that. As we step out of line, We begin to see how scars Are the lovely tale of someone’s life, Down to each freckle being painted, Moment by moment In the sun. We may be born unique, But life has a way Of ensuring we grow into who we are. Do something enough times and it imprints on the body. Even writing frequently by hand and pen has its effects. You see, my right pointer and thumb Bare the marks of quipped burden, Deliberately calloused and ink stained. The path of communion from my mind into physicality. You can clearly see the life people live, It’s written all over their body. Physically manifested What’s held inside, Marked by the dance of life.
Oh to be a woman, a journey onto one’s self.
With love,
Madison