Capstarable

Not All Convention Names are Literal

When God made girls he didn’t follow the recipe of sugar, spice, and everything nice, I think he lost the list of ingredients  that society sees when they try and make girl cookies  Because I am made of scraped knees from being pushed down by men who did not know me, but felt as if it was their place to walk all over my body, there isn’t anything sweet  about bloodstains on your jeans I am made of legs crossed in a futile attempt to be a lady, to somehow become proper in my grandmothers mind because good girls sit still and quietly, people don’t realize it is not nice  to become a prop for someone else’s life I am made of tears shed silently in my bedroom alone because no one will help me, they tell me that hit across my face is just a part of me and this boys love story, I suppose it is an alright substitute for the vanilla extract that makes me enticing  I am made of everything I am told I can’t be, I am loud, brash, opinionated, and I’ll throw a punch before I think it through, because I am a baked good that is best served salty   I am hair cut short, I am button down shirts and suits that say ‘For Men,’ I am long sundresses and bright red lipstick, because I am me no matter what color my icing  And I am not a girl, I am a woman who can not be duplicated with some simple recipe, I am more than those three things stop trying to rewrite  what makes me

The human body essentially recreates itself every six months. Nearly every cell of hair and skin and bone dies and another is directed to its former place. You are not who you were last November.