Make sure you paint me pretty after all my pieces are shattered and laying on the church floor. After all my blood has stained your glass red and your lips cherry.

Promise me now, years after I’m gone and I’m as famous as the Mona Lisa, naked and dripping tears on your easel, you let the kids spray paint “Sl*t!” on the walls. 

I mean hey, it’s the 21 century after all, no infringing on free speech anymore. And besides, who even decided that was such a horrible word anyway. Probably some old white man perched with his feet up, beer in hand, and a motto of “smash the patriarchy” literally. If he even has enough literacy to know what patriarchy actually means. Girls however, know what the patriarchy is from the moment they can comprehend even slightly the world around them. The double standards, the glances from men aged at a number you can’t even count too.  

But hey, all I’m asking from you is once you finally put me in the grave I’ve spent my whole life digging, you make sure I am beautiful. Build and piece me back together any way you have too, but give me your word you’ll do a good job. I’ll be the new Marilyn Monroe. Call me Evelyn McHale, make sure I’m more beautiful in death than in life, make certain my suicide makes me a martyr. Tell me all this suffering, all this pain, just God tell me it was worth something.

Imagine being Evelyn McHale, having your only wish for your body not to be seen by your family after you throw it off however many stories the Empire State Building is, and then a man comes along and defies your one and only wish. He comes along, photographs you, and suddenly your death is deemed the most beautiful suicide in the world (never mind the fact that you had to commit suicide in the first place), all because a man came along and took a picture. I don’t know about you, but I would be rolling in my grave. That’s the thing, when born a woman, you are born and bred to be seducers to men.