Is it macabre of me to hope my corpse is not pretty? To hope it bloats and rots before the blood dries on the curbside?
I don\'t mean that I wish to have my life stolen from me, it just constantly feels like that is what lies for me in this fucked up world. I don\'t know, maybe it makes me insane but, somehow, it feels like, if I die ugly, I will be free from a constant gaze, that one that lives in the eyes of others, that chooses whether I\'m beautiful and therefore worthy of respect or simply ugly. Maybe my guts will stain the sidewalk, head staring in the opposite direction, blood splattered around me like an unwilling martyr that did her job correctly, not letting anyone stare and appreciate her.
I’d cut my wrists open, I\'d swallow some pills, I\'d jump out of a lovely bridge, but it somehow seems wrong. What if I look pretty? What if I don\'t? I will never escape the criticism that follows me as a woman. Yes, I know men will read this as an emotional dramatic girl, I know I will never be taken seriously, I’ll never be more than a “woman”. That word feels like an insult in the lips of others. Yes, I am a woman, but I\'m not sure if I want to be one if it means that my opinion will only be a “woman’s opinion”, if my achievements will only be a “woman’s achievement”, if I’ll have to battle the right to feel this way, if I have to wish to die ugly so they will stop deciding if I have value based on my appearance. I do not know whether I want my heart to keep beating, that is a separate conversation, but if it must stop, please don\'t let me be pretty. Let me escape this beautiful hell.