Women, who dress up, who dress up to impress men; like the houses in the magazines my mom buys every month. Then, there’s me, and my friend, breaking stereotypes.
Why do we get picked-up by men, while we are not interested?
Millions of women, behind make-up, surgeries, and well-dressed; waiting to get picked-up, and no one notices.
There we are, two girls, standing still, all sweaty, in the Panamanian heat. Focused on cadence and time, like elite athletes training for a world championship. Two girls, with no intention of calling the attention, the attention of older men.
Two girls, shocked with horror at the thoughts of men who passed us by on Monday afternoons, we were eye candy, just like three-year-olds who are scared of clowns.
Even if we wanted to call their attention, we only receive nasty pick-up lines. We are seen just as sexual objects, like women in the past. Sitting by the window, with hope, waiting for their man. Like women in those old stories, we read about in books.
Why do we still suffer from sexual abuse? Like if we were living in those old stories where women were seen as an entertainment.
Why can’t we be seen as normal people? Why can’t women walk down the streets without people looking and calling out their body? Why can’t people focus on emotions and internal beauty, instead of on how your body looks?
Cecy's Writings 