Men will write your body like it doesn’t belong to you; arms, legs, chest — all vessels to hold them. They will never write about how more often you hold yourself. And they’ll skin you for their stories, use your organs for their poems. Girls were raised on fairytales so they wouldn’t think their hearts were made for more than love So men could want and have and create. In the dead of night we ask you to stop erecting churches from our beauty but forgetting their graveyards. We are not your dream girls — not sparrows or roses or dark city centers. We are something else all together that you will never truly know.