Always Headed Somewhere Else

i understand that someone

I hate my face. But I’m trying to find the beauty and love in it. By getting the haircut I want. By facial treatments and diamond peels. By going to the dentist to get my teeth fixed. I hate my body. But I’m trying to find the beauty and love in it. By running five miles a day and eating healthy food. By getting a massage once a month and a body scrub. By trying not to smoke too much. I hate my brain. But I’m trying to find the beauty and love in it. By seeking help from psychiatrists and psychologists. By taking my medications every day as required. By believing that there’s always hope. I hate myself, but I’m trying to love me one day.

Sometimes I remind myself that I almost skipped the party, that I almost went to a different college, that the whim of a minute could have changed everything and everyone. Our lives, so settled, so specific, are built on happenstance.

Let’s make sure this bullshit doesn’t follow us into 2018

These women are heroines. They have superpowers. They save the world on a regular basis. They all have personalities and backstories and they all dedicate their lives to the greater good and ALL you care about it the length of their skirts and the amount of cleavage that is revealed by their clothes.

These women are constantly running and/or flying, fighting, and going out in the middle of the night when it is cold. They all are in positions where their breast need support and the proper protection from enemies and the elements, along with the rest of their chests. These women are fighting along side men whose suits are drawn to be practical and not sexualize them. Not to mention men are drawn with the correct anatomy, which is less than I can say about these women who are mostly drawn by straight men who have never seen a boob before.

ALSO let me add that it is not fucking hard to draw female superheroes in practical costumes. I am an artist. I am going into comics (partly so I might be able to do something about this) so I know what it is like drawing people in different types of outfits. Their chests are not hard to draw, these guys just don’t know how to draw them because all of their references have been other men drawing female superheroes like the above. Spandex doesn’t work this say, neither does cotton, leather, or wool. No material makes boobs look like balls that are barely on your chest, except for the possibly bad boob job. Nothing against people with breast implants, but as far as I know none of these women have that in their back story.

“Hey can women wear practical clothing?”

She has become such a lonely person. She over-thinks; she is too curious; she is anxious. It almost kills her. Over time she has figured out a way she can quieten down her emotions and just feel nothing for a while. Other times it overwhelms her and she feels everything. I do not know what is worse, to feel absolutely nothing or to feel everything completely.

i’m sorry that there was always a storm in my mind, even on the sunniest of days, im sorry

It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

Almost. It’s a big word for me. I feel it everywhere. Almost home. Almost happy. Almost changed. Almost, but not quite. Not yet. Soon, maybe.

Let’s raise children who won’t have to recover from their childhoods.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

You’re 6 years old and your head is almost on your mother’s chest, you just survived a playground scuffle and you don’t know why your bloodied knees are not the biggest concern you have- it was their fingers in your shirt, in your hair, on your skin that frightened you most. They were too close. And even now, as you seek comfort, you hold your heavy head up unable to relax. You’re 11 years old when you hold your friend’s hand walking home from the bus stop, you’ve been inseparable since she moved in next door so you can’t explain the way your heartbeat migrates to your fingertips or why your palms suddenly become sweat slick, like your body is trying to force your hands to fall apart to the rhythm of your shaking core. You’re 14 and he’s got his hands around your waist- too tight, too much, too close. You quake like a seismic wave and hope that he too feels as though the earth is barely being held together, that he knows all this skin on skin is just asking for the world to swallow you both whole, but instead he opens wide, wider than a boy should and he brings you into himself. You’re 15 and that’s old enough, you’re an adult now after everything he touched and took so your hand travels down your body, hovering over a path other’s forged and you avoid the peaks and mounds where there has always been too much, erosion hasn’t taken the toll on your body that you hoped it would, you want to be worn down to nearly nothing, because hands can’t linger on something that isn’t there. You’re 16, almost 17, and the boy you love knows how to get what he wants, what they all want, what your mother warned you about. He tells you to obey or his fingers will wretch you apart and you listen, you comply but you break apart anyway. You’re 18 and the world is so different. You tell your mother that there isn’t anyone out there for you and her eyes fill with tears because you are so, so wrong. The weariness of a soul too old for your body overtakes you and you rest your head on her chest, your fingers spasm so she grips your hand just a little tighter