People Stare at Me

This is about control over my body.

People stare at me.

They stare at my eyes first.

They notice that they are white and unfocused.

They look longer than they mean to.

Then they look at my face.

They see the paint.

They see the lines drawn across my skin.

They see the way I have chosen to present myself.

Some of them whisper.

Some of them laugh.

Some of them ask questions that are not really questions.

“Why would you do that?”

“Are you trying to look scary?”

“Don’t you think you’re beautiful without all this?”

I hear the judgment even when the words sound polite.

The truth is simple.

I am tired of being told how a woman should look.

I am tired of being told to be natural, but not too plain.

I am tired of being told to be bold, but not too different.

I am tired of being told that my face is public property.

So I changed it.

I covered it in white.

I added lines.

I wore lenses that make you uncomfortable.

I made a choice that forces you to look and then confront your reaction.

This is not about fantasy.

It is not about escape.

It is not about pretending to be someone else.

It is about control.

When I look like this, I decide the terms of the conversation.

If you stare, it is because I allowed you something to stare at.

If you judge, it is because you cannot tolerate what you do not understand.

I am not asking to be approved.

I am not asking to be admired.

I am asking to be left alone in my decisions.

People stare at me.

That is real.

What is also real is this:

my body is mine, even when you do not like what I do with it.