By: Xaraphine
Her.
To my dearest,
If only you were honest enough to remember the girl you used to be; a vessel completely
and utterly consumed by societal thoughts. You were enclosed within a tight shell. So
nervous to tell others how she felt or should be feeling, with palms that surfaced beads of
sweat, and with gulps that encroached your throat, edging louder with every breath. If
only you stopped trapping every emotion inside the guise of your body. If only you
unveiled that ennui around the emblem of your chest. You never acknowledged her or
saw her, and yet you still don't. All that came next was age; and with age comes
eroticism. You started creating art, poetry, and stories, but this was mired in what others
expected you to create, which encapsulated the erotic. This is what helps us humans
reconcile with the blasphemy of creation; to see everything through a voyeuristic lens.
You became so depraved that you ignored her, and you ignored your creator. You became
distanced from who you were, and the Divine who helped you to see who you are. You
knew who you wanted to be, and adapted to the outward version of who you envisioned
to see. Yet inside, you still stood as the young, trembling girl, so desperate to be
eroticised, but detesting even an eye lingering on her body. And so you understood,
brought back to the fear and shame that comes from feminine youth. You remembered all.
those you had been compared to, and all those you compared yourself to. You weren't as
bright as them, not as pretty, not as motivated or charming, and not as witty. All that you
became was what you wanted others to see you for, but how truly, did you see yourself?
As an oppressor, to that young child that desperately wanted to be heard. The girl who
saw and heard things that didn't make sense to her when she was young, but clicked so
pristinely, when she came of age. You never allowed her to escape the shell, but
entrapped her further, in a façade of what others wanted to see. But you never achieved
satisfaction, you were never good enough for the Eurocentrics. Deep down, deeper than
the soul, you knew why you felt like an outsider, when you emblematised everything you
sought to encapsulate.
So, I apologise.
Yours truly,
Your dearest.
Author's Bio
Xaraphine is a 19 year-old writer fascinated by aspects of girlhood, post-colonial theory, orientalism, cinema and pop culture. Frequently writes on Substack, where the above themes are dissected in a semiotic way, conveying cultural, nuanced interpretations.