The Good-Girl Prison

Society loves them, the descent-dressed-little-to-no-vanity-20-year-old virgins, the girl next door. I grew up in a world where mothers teach their sons to call women bad names – oh, yes, my dear friend, the face of “macho-culture” wears lipstick, and irony is blood-red. 

They are unworthy of our respect, those who chose another path, women who talk openly about sexuality, women who own their bodies, the no-moms. 

Bad women! 

We don’t like them. We want Miss Perfection. Perfection has no voice; it’s a mannequin in a glass cage. So, we can abuse her over and over and over again, and she’ll be quiet.

My country raised me to be like that. And I let it happen. It’s nothing that you see, you know? It’s a toxin in the air. Invisible to the eye. Lethal. 

You die little by little. Willingly. While they walk with blindfolds to not see reality, good girls all over the world: 

• Get STD and blame public spaces. – To hide the shame. 
• Abort fetuses from their married boyfriends. – For believing in lies. 
• Fall in a loop of abusive relationships. – Because he said I’m sorry, and the house wasn’t clean.

We have needs, beliefs, experiences, disillusions, thoughts, wishes, dreams. It’s perverse. And sad; good girls are doomed to fail because there is no perfection in being human.

We love. We hate. We hurt. 

In this roller-coast of madness, we call life, every one of us gets pushed by impulses. Culture. Family. Tradition. We suffocate in our bias, and the majority never gets to see that they’re trapped. 

They praised my long skirts as if they were a symbol of purity when they made me feel like a witch; mysterious, unapproachable, and powerful. Superior.

They praised my little makeup as if I wanted to show them naturality – as if I cared. I just don’t like the fact that it melts in the hot weather, and I can brag silently about my dark, flawless skin. 

It’s not for them. It was never for them. 

Every time I looked down from the pedestal they had put me on, I saw their bony hands of muddy, pointy claws reaching out to me from the purgatory. Cold supplicant eyes, painfully pleading for redemption, but I am not here to save anyone. I left them to burn in their sins because I am only taking the flames of my own. 

There is no right or wrong, for right and wrong will always be determined by a bias. It’s as subjective as reality. The only thing we know for sure is that Death’s breathing on our necks, and we never know when she’ll bite. 

However, today, you still have the chance to choose who you want to have been after you’re gone.

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