Blame

I used to blame my skirt. If it was longer it wouldn’t draw unwanted eyes. If it was longer, they wouldn’t whistle on the walk home. If it was longer, they wouldn’t slap my ass in the corridor. I used to blame my lack of makeup. If I wore more, they wouldn’t look so disgusted…. Read more »

by Amelia Righelato Sutton 4 months ago

I used to blame my skirt.

If it was longer it wouldn’t draw unwanted eyes.

If it was longer, they wouldn’t whistle on the walk home.

If it was longer, they wouldn’t slap my ass in the corridor.

I used to blame my lack of makeup.

If I wore more, they wouldn’t look so disgusted.

If I wore more, they wouldn’t judge the bags resting under my eyes.

If I wore more maybe they would smile instead of looking the other way.

I used to blame my bare legs.

If I covered up, they wouldn’t judge my curves.

If I covered up, they wouldn’t point out the patch I missed shaving.

If I covered up maybe I wouldn’t notice the unwanted stares.

I used to blame what I eat.

If I missed a meal my stomach might not roll.

If I missed a meal, I wouldn’t have to adjust my skirt when I sit.

If I missed a meal, I might look like those Barbie dolls from when I was a kid.

I look down at the faded scars covered by my school jumper.

They remind me of all the times I thought about missing a meal.

The extra time I spent in the morning putting on makeup and tights.

I stare back at my naked face in the mirror instead of avoiding the reflection.

I look at my bare legs and stomach rolls that never hurt anybody.

And I realise, it is not my fault, they are the ones to blame.