Looks like I’m cookie cutter framing you.

When a guy told me,
“You’re not like most girls,”
I found myself saying thank you
And not asking what most girls are like because I’m too scared to know the answer
I’m too scared to remember that everyone’s different and by saying what he did he didn’t mean it as a compliment
He just meant
That I was doing what I’d been taught to do since the age of five
When I was made aware that being a girl isn’t quite the same as being a boy
What they taught me but didn’t tell me was that I would spend my entire life pleasing others and adjusting and making do with what I have because I’ve already been given too much.
I’ve been given a voice.
The next time my voice dies down in my throat
Like hands around my neck begging me to stop
Stop talking, stop thinking, stop existing
I can’t listen.
Because I’m not like most girls am I.
I don’t listen.
I don’t listen because I don’t want to have to look good to be taken seriously
I don’t want to have to think about being selfish all the time
I’m sick of feeling like yet another cookie cutter frame
This monotonous batch one after the other, no more than an object and being thrown into the fire if
I’m just a little too brown or god forbid, not perfect.
I’m sick of realizing that I’m not enough to change the world and probably will never be.
I’m sick of myself because my voice isn’t as loud as my conscience and the sirens in my brain shake my balance but do little to shake someone’s faith in their unrighteousness.
But I want to have faith too.
I want to have enough faith in the universe to not feel like a burden as I give my opinion with a spoonful of sugar, as important as ones morning coffee, but as ignored as stains on a coffee cup,
gathering dust because my heated argument did little to remove it.
I want to have faith in myself.
To speak up.
And start over.
And try again.
How can I.
‘When breakfast tastes like disappointment,’ I ask myself.

But for the record.

When another guy reminds that “I’m not like most girls.”
I hope I’ll have the strength to say, “but you’re exactly like most guys.”

-Iris

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Normalcy.

Sometimes when the chemicals in her bloodstream took over and she found herself feeling sad, she wished she was normal. Someone who looked around and saw cars, motorbikes and retail stores, not the greed and gluttony of humanity. Someone who looked up to the stars and saw twinkling dots of beauty, not burning spheres of flame that would incinerate her in minutes. Someone who could make conversation without a side dish of stutters and awkward silences. Someone who was accepted by society and comfortable in their world. Someone, who was the opposite of her.

During these periods of less-than-happy emotions, she hated herself. She hated her figure and her baby features. She hated her chapped lips ¬†and her ugly nail-bitten fingers. She hated her inability to concentrate on her studies and that she had no motivation or will power to take the time to practise her hobbies. But most of all, she hated her conscious mind for allowing this hatred because she knew that others had it worse. While others struggled to earn money and went hungry, she had all she needed to survive and yet she didn’t make use of her resources. And yet, she sat wallowing in self despair wishing she wasn’t born.

However, this mood passed, like it always did, unravelling the shadows strangling her. She could think again. She could have hope again. As she made her way into the sunlight, one slow step at a time, she built a wall ¬†around herself, separating her from her negative thoughts. Pretending they were never there. As the sun rose higher and the wall grew thicker, she began to function again. Her heart beat steadily, her eyes remained dry. She could remind herself that she wasn’t alone; that she had family and friends who would help her. She could look at the cars, motorbikes and retail stores and see a species that was trying its best to keep its little corner habitable. She could laugh and smile and have conversations about the stars, the milky way, the universe, without feeling like she was drowning. She could make conversation with a stranger without feeling bad about her awkward personality. She felt better.

Even though she knew that the day, where the wall would collapse and plunge her back into the deep recesses of her mind, was coming, she was happy. With her no longer clouded mind, she realised that nobody was normal. Not her, not her family, not her friends, not the newborn baby, on the opposite side of the planet, named Javier.

And for the first time since her last breakdown, she knew that this was okay.

-Icarus