I used to be sexy.
My boobs were perky and my waist was small.
My body was complimented like an object I owned, It felt fucking good to be validated because of it.
But that validation was that of a broken system. One that valued oppression over liberation.It only approved while I fit into size 2. And as long as I shut my mouth and smiled, because it made me look prettier. I was celebrated when I’d undermine other women, Creating further separation from who I was underneath the sexy.
My internalized misogyny kept them happy.
Kept me complimented.
Kept me safe.
Kept me sexy.
Sexy enough to be valued. But not sexy enough to enjoy my own body.
Sexy enough to be used. But not too sexy, or it’s my fault.
But as the birthdays passed, as I fell in love, and I chose to birth children, My body shifted, my voice grew louder, and the compliments stopped.
In a world that taught me my value comes from how I look, The benchmarks I’d set for myself were actually the brainwash of a system that keeps women submissive, de-valued, objects to own – at best.
Sexy for you will never be sexy for me.
So call be bitter as I liberate others from your misogynistic views.
Call me old as I embrace the honour of aging.
Call me fat as I appreciate my ever evolving body.
Call me disgusting as I accept the hair that grows naturally on my body.
Call me anything but sexy.
