I’m sorry darling.
I’m sorry for the day you realized you weren’t the same—
Weren’t worth it
Weren’t worth more than the ratio between your hip and waist
The length of your hair and the freckles on your cheeks
The pitch of your laugh when you’re trying to politely decline.
The speed with which you walk when you’re trying so damn hard not to be scared of the dark
The confusion when the things you know to be true are disregarded because your jeans don’t fit quite right
The shame when the merit of your successes are reduced to your marital status and your latest wardrobe selection.
I’m sorry darling, that the colour of lipstick you chose is far more important than the politics you champion.
The bravery you embody, and the passion you feel when you’re talking about immunity.
That you know you can’t be the prettiest, so you have to wonder if you actually bring anything to the table
That the intelligent questions you ask are shrouded in the shadow of the skin that makes your thighs touch together.
I’m sorry darling, that you can’t have it all.
That you’ll have to fight twice as hard to have any of it. A bit. A drop.
That the law of averages imply that you’ll be sexualized, sexually assaulted, and consider killing yourself before you’re 21.
That you won’t tell anyone because you’ll think it was your fault.
I’m sorry darling, that you’ll have to choose
That you’ll have to defend that choice
That you may not get a choice.
I’m sorry darling, that women are still fighting for all of this.
I’m sorry darling, that your great-grandmother, nana, and mom all felt the same and there wasn’t another damn thing we could do.
I’m so sorry darling, you didn’t ask for this.
Author: Taylor Johnston
Image: Travis Swan/Flickr
Editor: Lieselle Davidson