pretty privilege

I thought I was raised different

but the rage finds shelter

in the holes in my memory

each time the whiskey burns

my throat.

The mirror reflects

the parts of me that

men fantasize about

in moments where I wish

the glass would shatter

& the pretty privilege would dissolve.

I could blame the world for something

but when sobriety finds me

so does the regret of empty pleas

begging to be seen as something

other than a man’s late night desire.

In fact, the biggest regret of

them all is truly believing

the world could find something about

me as interesting as the qualities

the women in my life adore.

Instead i’m met with verbal arousal

and looks of yearning that never

reaches beyond my silhouette.

& Honestly, if a man

decides to take a deeper look

within my soul,

i’m almost always met with confusion

as to why I’m nothing like the girl

they’ve fabricated in their heads.

Suddenly, the sexualized thoughts

turn into resentment because

how dare a woman be anything other than

attractive?

How dare she be opinionated?

How dare she set boundaries?

How dare she have a brain?

What is pretty privilege if we can’t even use it for our own personal gain?

It is simply talk between boys

who wish they could use it for themselves.