geschreven door Zoë Chungong

PART 1

The judgement of one’s beauty undertakes the beauty that lies in that individual; by looking at the aesthetic features one has, their other qualities seem to lose meaning. And so the appreciation of someone’s appearance disestablishes the accuracy of one’s representation, demolishing yet giving strength to the ethereal experience.

Pretty girls; pretty girls with figures we could only wish for, almost statue-like.

Curvy in the desired areas and slim in others. Stunning faces with flawless skin pronounced cheekbones. A tan and smooth complexion. Pretty eyes; strong yet soft brows, thick and shiny, long hair that has gently curled itself.

Sharp jawlines, small perky noses, thick lips, with the bottom lip about 4mm bigger than the top lip, a defined Cupid’s bow and clear lipgloss.
Pearly white teeth and a necklace to match them. Luscious lashes that can only blink slowly ; lashes which are rather soft than crisp, rather black than grey.
Long and dainty necks, broad yet modest shoulders. Inviting colorbones ,their cup sizes ranged from a 38 b to a 34 e. Their ribs are tucked in, yet visible. Almost unrealistically small waists. Flat stomachs. With anglecutting obliques, supported by big and juicy hips; the front part of the hip visibly sticking out creating a very distinctive v-shape, which then emphasises their flat stomachs, the side of the hips should be voluptuous if not curvaceous. And so should their asses.

They have big asses. And an ass to calf ratio which is barely natural.
This structure some might call a body, creates the perfect, desired and praised hourglass-figure. Long legs which are thick yet still have thigh-gaps. Not a sign of cellulite’s. Perfect knees. And perfectly shaped calfs with sharp chins.
Not a single hair on their legs or the rest of their perfectly shaped body.

And they have elegant feet with freshly done manicures.
Sexy shoulders, and firm arms, and small wrists with a diameter of 14 to 16 centimetres. And they have soft and beautiful hands with freshly done manicures.

I’d wish I could be just like them, like those pretty girls.

They’re just so beautiful and so perfect. I wonder if they see it. When they look at their perfect bodies, and their perfect faces and their perfect little hands.

I’ve lost myself trying to suppress and control my physical needs. Imagine I can shrink and stretch the parts I have to. Obsess over every tiny little detail. Just for a chance to look like them. Working towards a standard, which will probably have changed before I’ve reached it.

Destroy what used to be my body in the process.
Gladly starve myself, work out until I pass out and buy whatever will make me feel pretty.Bodies are no longer just bodies. They are trends to follow.

Pretty girls are no longer pretty girls they’ve become bodies

PART 2

Countless stares and eyes had been placed on my body.
I learned that I could never walk alone; their eyes, mouths, and hands would always follow me.
Men I would call boys, called me princess, woman, girl.
All of these words had replaced and simplified me.

And when I couldn’t accept them, they were easily replaced by something else. A no quickly turned a pretty girl into a bitch, a princess into an ugly whore.

These men I would have called boys. Called girls, women

Woman; a title I had once worked so hard for had now lost it's meaning and when the girl who hadn't even reached puberty was now silent. Distant murmurs she couldn't find the meaning of, made place for the word creature.

Creature; A girl that was once long legs and tiny waist, had become a creature.

The first time she got catcalled she was 9 years oldcand when she didn't respond my existence was limited to the word creature. I didn’t realise then that it was a compliment;

Cause nowadays all they see when they look at me is a woman.

They asked the creature to pull down the skirt that they had pulled up; and I was looking at my hands and what they've become.

They say your body is a temple but mine was an invitation for a hand on my lap, holding on to more than the names they had screamed at me; pretty legs they often called me. No wonder they had their hands all over them.
Why did shouting “pretty legs”, not make me open them? Why did I not thank them? Why did my legs not bend, so I could fall on my knees for them.

These boys had screamed and begged. They had asked questions with answers they didn’t want to hear. They asked questions which they already had the answers to. Somehow I always knew, I knew they weren’t looking for directions. I knew they were looking for a conversation starter, a body, a girl, a broken woman; to follow around. To spin around their finger and spit out whenever it pleased them. They followed me, tried to talk to me, touched me. I prayed I wouldn’t become a broken woman or a conversation starter. Because I knew, I had already been just “a body”.

I had to learn how to grow strong and intimidating. Tried to keep their broken hands of me. Tried to keep their hands of my waist, found ways to evade the unwanted hugs, wished I could forget the unwarranted whispers and kisses they placed on my neck; I never knew if I should answer their questions, not when they were screamed across the street. Not if answering meant they might follow me. I didn’t mind bitting my tongue if it meant they wouldn’t follow me home. They followed me, tried to talk to me, touched me. I prayed I wouldn’t become a broken woman or a conversation starter. Because I knew, I had already been just “a body”.

Just enjoy the attention they said, see it as a compliment, why are you complaining about it? Guys like to remind me of how lucky I am, they use the expression pretty privilege not knowing what it actually means;

They use it while they are unaware of how I feel when I look at my body.
My body asks men to remind me I have pretty legs and a pretty ass.
My body still hears the compliments screamed across the street,
My body practically begs the man to follow me home,
My body still feels their arms.

My body asked for an arm around my waist while they ask if I want a drink,
My body gets me free drinks, and a pretty boyfriend, and more attention from men, and help when I’m carrying a lot of bags, and an article in a newspaper, and followers on instagram, and modelling gigs, and dance jobs
My body makes them ask me if I’d like to drink something,
My body makes them ask me if I’m Sure I don’t want to drink anything
My body makes sure, they’re making Sure I don’t want to drink anything,
My body makes them get me a drink anyways,
My body makes them put the pill in the drink,
My body get’s me in the club for free
My body is the amount of times someone has touched me, without them asking me first,
My body makes them touch me when I’ve already told them no,
My body never has to say no, because it knows that they won’t listen any ways,
My body asks for it.

At least that’s what they say
At least that’s they think and what they do

Maybe you were asking for it?”. Grown men would lift up my skirts, slap my ass, kiss me without permission, they’d try to follow me home. And still the only question people could ask me was: “Maybe you were asking for it?”.

Maybe the clothes on my body were more than just clothes, maybe they were an invitation to walk along or to lay their hands upon me. My provocative shoulders a sign that they could do whatever they pleased. I had to learn that woman had to dress a certain way in order to deserve a choice.

And I had to learn that my body had never been my own.
The body I had hated for so long became the only thing they wanted. Their body, which I would have called mine could no longer hold itself.

They told me they loved me. They told me whatever might give them a chance to hold me. I felt their stares but knew none of them actually looked at me. Their eyes and hands followed me; but I don’t think they ever really saw me. They saw a glimpse, an idea, a body.

I wished they could truly see me; I wish they would see the beauty in the thoughts that wandered around in my mind. I wish they wouldn’t fall for the idea of me. Some men saw a body where I walked, and others had imagined a character, a girl so sweet and kind they couldn’t help themselves.

They created me.
They searched for something they couldn’t find in themselves. And they created me a creature .

After years of quick stepping and avoiding dark alleys. I’ll remember the times I clenched my keys in between my fingers; and I’d feel stupid.
As you swallowed me. You reminded me that even you saw me as a body.