diez. is this fingertip length, doll?
listen the fuck up, i'm not the little dress up doll your momma used to make you play with when you were eight years old. i am more than the sum of my exposed knees and bare shoulders, or is this fingertip length, doll?
workplace propriety is your excuse to burn my flowery sundresses or hiss at the fabric of my tops but don't you all like your secretaries blouses two sizes small? police all you want but my skin screams to bask under daylight and shimmer like the lights of an 80s disco ball.
for each dress you make me shove into the back of my closet, there are a thousand, a million more girls who grow tired of old men dictating how much skin they can show. and let's be honest here, the sickly sweet taste in your mouth that grows at a glimpse of thigh will be your downfall.
stare harder because some day, the coffee of my skin will slide down your throat and choke any claim you can make of my fucking skirt being too short.
—
note;
the dress code at my uni (and literally everywhere) can fuck off
