I envy my
ten year old her freedom, being unaware of the scrutiny of the male’s gaze,
untethered by his expectation. Still able to be inside her body and enjoy it
for what it is; a remarkable instrument, not the weight of it, the height of
it, or the size of its limbs. Free from her body's measurements, her eyes not yet
trained to criticise and fault it, not yet made aware of how to compare
herself to pictures in magazines, to peers, or to a past self. I envy her the
lightness of her existence, not yet pressed by ideals of beauty, not yet pulled
down by the heavy anchor of self-worth. A full, complete soul without a hole in
it. A perfect being, not seeking validation or approval, not yet riddled or trampled by cultural
foolishness, social norms or opinions.
I was once like that, I can’t remember
what it felt like, but I know I was once just as tremendous.
