I don’t want to be pretty.

This growing up thing. Its so messy and scary and its constantly tapping me on the shoulder and reminding me that every time I think Ive learnt a bucket full in the distance there’s a well FULL of memories and experiences, trials and celebrations.

After last weeks post I had so many responses and the occasional reassurance.

“Don’t worry, you’re pretty”

Pretty. I smiled.

Along the way I became a slave to 2 syllables. 5 letters.
P-R-E-T-T-Y.
I’d heard it before. A word tossed from girl to girl, rarely meant. Pretty is a crippled, distorted word in a world that matches it against thigh gap existence and pearly white smiles. The world had drained out all the metrics of measuring women and replaced it with Pore size and calorie counts.

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