He calls to me from across the street,
his voice sharp, cutting the air like glass.
“Hey, sexy,” he says,
like my body is his to own,
like my silence is permission.
I freeze.
Is this fear or fury?
I’m too scared to fight,
too tired to run.
Instead, I let the shame settle,
burning beneath my skin.
It wasn’t always like this.
I remember when shorts were just fabric,
not an invitation.
When bikinis felt like freedom,
not armor I couldn’t wear.
I remember running barefoot on the beach,
the sun warm on my skin—
not their eyes.
Never their eyes.
Now I hate the waves.
I hate the sand.
I hate how the world feels smaller
when they’re watching me.
I hate how the mirror lies,
telling me I’m never enough,
telling me I’m too much.
They call me beautiful,
but only when it suits them.
Only when it’s a weapon.
I never wanted this—
to be seen, to be judged,
to be torn apart by looks
and words that cut deeper
than anything else ever could.
One day, I’ll be sixty.
I’ll be invisible.
No one will scream at me from cars.
No one will whisper behind my back.
I’ll slip through the world like a ghost,
fading into the quiet.
But will I miss it?
The noise, the looks,
the power I never asked for?
If no one calls me beautiful,
will I still be?
If no one screams my worth,
will I ever find it myself?
What is beauty,
if it’s built on pain?
What is growing up,
if it means losing yourself
to the weight of the world’s gaze?
Tell me,
am I enough without their words?
Am I enough without their eyes?
Or is this what it means to be a girl—
to carry the burden of being seen,
but never truly known?
Cover photo taken by Tilly Martyn
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