Dear Girls,

Pretty girls pretty girls everywhere,
Pretty girls don’t care
What you have to say about their hair,
They laugh, they cry
They’re of all shapes, sizes and heights

Pretty girls are of all kinds,
Cheap mascara running down their faces,
Cheap lipstick and shoes with laces,
Pretty girls aren’t all fair
And like I said, they don’t care.

Pretty girls sway their hips,
And words as sweet as honey,
Words that sting,
Words of pride escape their lips.
Pretty girls are our warriors in braces.

Pretty girls? Don’t see their pretty,
All they see in people’s eyes are pity,
They make a lacklustre world lustrous,
Their hair cascading till their hips,
But not all pretty girls are princesses.

Pretty girls have stories to tell,
Stories of sorrows,
And stories that go well.
Pretty girls are all about making your heart swell,
Even if they don’t speak your language, oh well.

Pretty girls, pretty girls everywhere,
Not a soul to spare,
They are true and bare.
Not only behind a screen,
They include the girl next door who screams.

Pretty girls need to be aware,
They are pretty, witty and loved,
No one else decides,
If their eyebrows need be plucked,
Or if they need a good fuck.

Dear pretty girls everywhere,
Look at the mirror and repeat after me,
“I am a girl,
I am pretty, angry, but wise
And fuck anyone who says otherwise.”

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The Danger of A Single Story

“How old are you?”, the older woman asked.

“Ten”, said the scraggy girl.

“Ah! Little children won’t get it.”

Dear older woman,

That ten year old girl,

Works at the restaurant near your house,

Cleaning bathroom stalls,

Dealing with men objectifying her,

She’s seen more than you have,

On your vacations funded by ‘daddy.’

Is age but just a number?

 

“You’re lucky you’re fair,

Your skin tone’s great!”

All that aside,

She was called ‘yellow’,

For her relatively small eyes,

But she was Indian too.

Is she not human,

Her looks put aside?

 

“Africa this, Africa that”

Does one fail to realize that Africa,

Is a continent,

With fifty-four different countries,

The people patriotic,

But wanting to be recognized,

As something more,

Than just an African.

 

Dear boy who supports the queer,

Quite ironic you say so,

When ten minutes ago,

You used a homophobic slur,

And called someone gay,

For not being a stereotypical boy.

Does going against the stereotype,

And being oneself make you gay?

Perhaps if you meant ‘gay’ to be ‘happy’,

Then you’re absolutely correct.

 

Her dresses were baggy,

And maybe terribly long,

But did they consider,

Her having an oppressive father,

Where all she wanted to do,

Was cover the marks,

She was willing to forget.

The galaxies on her skin,

Caused by havoc and not pleasure?

 

‘Slut’, this one was called.

They didn’t understand that,

All those times,

She was an innocent girl,

A hopeless romantic,

Too trusting for her own good,

But was taken advantage of.

Suddenly, saying ‘no’ meant,

Trying harder and being forceful.

Suddenly, ‘No’ meant,

She was asking for it.

 

They saw the hijab,

A quick judgment made.

‘Terrorist’, she was labeled.

Funny how four letters,

I,S,I,S,

Ruined the reputation of one religion ,

When in actuality,

The people of that very religion,

Fear and are against that very organization,

Defaming their innocent faith.

 

Stereotypes,

They’re nothing but a single story unexplained.