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As I laid my sultry gaze upon the bottle of Windex, I sprayed with such severe vindication, pressing my chest out for the gaze of the room to fall upon my embonpoint. I watched the mirror dance with the shimmer, as the spindrift of the undrinkable Windex cultivate to the surface. For a moment, as I reloaded the spray, the blue effluge dripped down the surface of the mirror, and although I was biting my lip, and blinking passionately, I realized I was alone.

I was alone, with nobody to impress.

My gaze falters, and I now stare at the build up of the Windex gradually building upon the bottom of my mirror, and the surface is not the one I attempted to impress. It was man.

As I get ready for work, I realize being a barista does not need three different concealers. I realize I am in a glass cage, made out of crystal, and I am but a doll for mankind to glare at and put onto a scale of zero to ten.

Men would rather me dead, for my opinions, for my uterus, and for my soul they can reattach onto a stitched mouth, and a petticoat.

I am alone. And they are not my knights.

As time goes on, I truly do try laboriously to feel at insouciance with the body I currently reside in, crossing my fingers. As a tween still in a training bra with a subscription to a monthly blood drive that I first got on new years eve, I never felt comfortable. I was too overgrown for my skin, I was too small to fit into tall clothes, and my hair always seemed to draw grease and not boys eyes. As hard as I do try to remember the self that I was, I faked grandiose and pretended as if though I was sex in a bottle. Realistically, I had just figured out what masturbation was and realized that I really needed to be fucked.

Now, as I am older, I preform, as a woman. I try to double down on my responses, smile wider, pretend as if though I am not currently thinking of a fourteen page manifesto of how badly being around you makes me want to jump. It applies to when you sit in your room, and instead of succumbing to the double chin, you apprehensively shift against the headboard, as to look more dainty.

While cleaning, you wipe the floor and curve your back, in case the man of your dreams scampers in on a horse and not a 2011 nissan, and decides to marry you for being so exemplary of a woman. I caught myself doing things as to look better, to preform accurately, as to mask the way I'd rather eat a container of frosting and not think for a solid fifteen minutes. I have dumbed myself down for the attraction of a man who didnt want anything to do with me.

I psychoanalyze everything I see as a coping mechanism passed down from the Greeks, and i can't psychoanalyze this. The truth is, I preform for an audience of no one to not be caught off guard by that undisputed feeling of embarrassment of when I dont look faultless. I sit in a box made out of a hierarchical standard that I have to be perfect, to be loved. To be desired, and to be liked.

When in reality, I've coerced myself to fit the conceptualization of feminity I actively preach against.

It isn't my fault that I try my hardest to be wanted—it's the fault of the world that has clutched me by my nape and vagina, and said either you fit in, or you become an outcast.

And we both know you don't want that, girl.

Men do not see me as human. They feel no empathy when they're hard, and you're sobbing about your dad. They never really did see me as human. At least for me, i've tried to preform and fix everything around me so the play that God pushed me to join turns out quintessentially, even if I'm not the lead. I sway in the corner in a leaf costume, staring at the spotlight hit any girl but me.

And so I try to outperform the other leaves, but we all trip over our own feet in our separate universes, and the prince doesn't save us. Because the prince isn't meant to save the leaf, the prince is always met to save the princess. I can try on all the princess dresses I want, I can force myself to be deaf to another man play guitar on a FaceTime call and try to impress me, I can spray a cleaning agent and try to look pretty, I can listen to music and try to imagine something romantic, but my life doesnt revolve around a man.

It revolves around me, not someone who would willingly throw me to the fishes as to see me clog the gutter.

I'm an egomaniac who cries at night, I'm an anarchist, a slut, and a negativist agnostic nihilistic cunt, who wants to be friends with everyone. Classy.

I am not a toy to play with in the bath and sit and ignore how I mold over time, and when you finally do squeeze me and see what you did, you only to carve me open as an experiment that would be posted on fucking TikTok.

But even if I know this, I still smile wider, covering up the cracks in my face from being punched and slammed to the ground by enough men to probably have a psychotic quench and a healthy dose of misandry.

But no. I pretend to be clueless, ignorant, and laugh at unfunny jokes, dazzle and tantalize, and force myself to be the newest porn genre my recent pet project wants. But I am not a porn genre. I am not a doll to be slammed and stepped on. I am not someone to be told, even in a double entendre, go make me sandwich.

But execrably, I am a plague for mankind.

I am a doll for sale, and the splotchy, varnished smile will snap, and peel off the poor photocopy of me.