What they don’t know. Silence of a woman. By Aida Kerich

 They say I’m a piece of art 

But they ask me to cover up 

They say my skin is a perfect color palette  

But my skirt isn’t long enough 

They preach mental health 

And how I should love myself 

But they hide every inch of me  

So, can they blame me 

Can they blame me for taping my thighs, so they don’t jiggle when I walk? 

Can they blame me for buying pounds of make-up, so I can find a shade that they can keep in sight? 

Can they blame me for hiding my real skin because it isn’t light enough? 

Can they blame me for sucking in my stomach, so they don’t count my layers and compare it to the ones on my cake? 

Can they blame me for watching what I eat so I don’t have to deal with the guilt? 

The guilt of editing and of painting a false picture  

The guilt of raising the beauty standards and making them impractical  

The guilt of diminishing another girl’s self-love 

 

They say I’m a piece of art  

But the last time I checked  

Picassos pieces were worth millions  

 

They say I am a piece of art  

But what they truly mean is I am not a man 

I’m too distractive to be seen and too tempting to be heard 

So, they tuck me away 

But I am proud  

My voice will be heard 

I am a woman 

I am a work of art.