Pretty Girls

(Image by Vitaly Gorbachev via Pexels)

how unfortunate is our fate—

that our existence is debated by anyone who so desires.

unfortunate

that we’re placed on a never-ending treadmill,

chasing a carrot, so hungry eyes

may watch our cotton tails sway

with each spring.

I was too young.

to understand,

that I was born cursed—

round, timid eyes,

met with sharp, violent hunger.

soft pink lips,

adorned with my mother’s gloss,

that smiled gently at strangers,

returned with sneers and snarls

from big bad wolves.

a smooth tummy

filled with all my favourite treats,

peeks out when I roll in the grass

and climb the trees—

watched: eyes low and foaming at the mouth.

and still, they name it admiration.

still, they call the cage a compliment

and the leash a love song.

pretty girls,

let them be unfortunate in their hunger.

let them choke on the myth

that softness is surrender.

we were not born to be watched.

we are not up for debate.

we are not the chase.

we are not your prey.