I’m Sick And Tired Of Always Being A Good Girl

Unsplash/ Casper Nichols

Stepping out of the rain, I walk towards the mirror and stand with a besetting sense of insecurity.

I look at the gnawing stretch marks that engulf my breasts, thighs and hips, the very parts that are supposedly the chief characteristics of a womans sexual appeal.

I dont bother looking at the curve of my waist or the mole on my back; I dont flip my hair or slide my hand over the smooth expanse of my skin.

Why?

Because I havent had the courage to look at myself and say that I am good enough. I havent had the guts to tell myself that I am pretty and that I deserve the world.

Instead, I put on the bathrobe and go straight to bed.

In nights such as this, I catch myself wondering if I am desired; not the mushy kind that warms your heart but the kind that sends your hormones in a blister rage.

Am I allowed to fantasize having my hands pinned against the wall and him clutching my waist forward? Am I allowed to desire a human on top of me?

Am I allowed to let my imagination run wild, to places that I have never been. Or is this too a freedom not allowed to a woman?

Tonight, I feel like letting the good daughter mask fall off; the mask that I have held on to so dearly, as if my life was depending on it. And, why wont I put on a mask like this?

All my life, I have been asked to be a good daughters; sob under the blanket cover but induce everybody laugh, look pretty enough to garner attention but be blissfully unaware of the same, willingly submit to a mans sexual requires but never speak of your own carnal passion, have an sentiment but only if it resonates with the rest.

But tonight, I feel like disobeying all the rules, the ones that have always held me down and asked me to live a life only in accordance to the people around you.

I have to allow myself to feel beautiful, without needing a man to validate me for the same. I have to allow myself to kiss the lips that promise me the poison of desire. I have to let myself run, merely to find myself again.

And to do so, I have to build mistakes.

Let me build mistakes tonight, the cruel ones that fill me with guilt and the innocent ones that attains no sense the next day.

Let me feel beautiful, despite the presence of cellulite and stretch marks that take so much of space; the kind of beauty that the glamour world disowns.

Let me get so drunk in passion that it numbs all the ache I feel. A whiff of cigarette or a shot of whiskey down my throat will perhaps tarnish the image I so carefully protected, but that doesnt bother me anymore.

I spring out of my bed and put on a lace gown; I sneak out the house because the night is still young and there are many mistakes to make.

Dont you stop me tonight, for tonight I am not the very best girl I have always been.

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