and she tries. she really does try. she covers wounds with lace frills and rashes with dusts of pink blush. there was nothing more the lonely, lovely girl adores more than turning her pain into something utterly sweet and delectable. sugary tears, there’s always blood made out of lipgloss staining a knife that not long ago split delicate skin right in two. more room for pink. it’s red, dumb girl.

:( ì̵̫̟̺ ̴̩̦̑d̵͙̊̌̏o̸͎͛n̵̝̮̽̏t̶͔̻̚ ̴̢͇͕́̈́̚l̷̤̖͒i̴͚̖̋͋̿k̵̼͕̥͐e̵͓͔̠͌̓̋ ̴̺̝̻̑̔ŗ̸̎͋e̷͔͗͊ḓ̵̬̘̀.̶̤͎̽͗.̸̧̦͒

oh sweet girl, don’t be so harsh on yourself.

the lonely, lovely girl clips bows into her soft brunette locks with a darling smile on her face. she could never be sad for too long when this is how she looks, right?

the gash is still..

there.

present.

stark.

the one on her thigh? the mirror?

the perfume stings her soft neck as the droplets land, digging needles into her skin. the curling iron kept ripping her scalp with heat and burns. she cannot smile, her reflection is..

stark.

present.

pained.

uglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyuglyugly

she cries. all night she wails over how pathetic the girl trapped behind the glass looks. f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜, the night isn’t a comforting companion. the dark watches sugary red lipgloss stain the sheets. the lonely, lovely girl grew frantic for cuteness. the floral sheets soaked. tears and lipgloss. tears and lipgloss,

stark.

present.

lonely, lovely.

the lonely, lovely girl doesn’t bother with lace or bows. the gash is so visible.

what?

the one on her thigh of course. the mirror?

the girl behind the glass screams, loud. deafening. blood curdling. it rattles the lovely girl’s bone to dust.

f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜

f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜

f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜

f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜

f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜

the bows are so fucking useless. the knife lays so shiny, so sharp, so pretty.

f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜

what use is it trying to be so beautiful when she can’t even manage a smile?

f̷̢̔͒r̸̗̈͒e̸͇̺͑̎ë̵͔̑ ̸̼̥̓m̷͎̽͘è̷̜

useless, ugly. the mirror is screaming, screaming so loud. but a mirror can’t scream on it’s own. the lonely lovely girl’s throat burnt, then wet with metal. hot, choking, vomiting. n̶̠̈́ǫ̶̚t̸̡͂.̶͌ͅ ̷͙̈́s̸͚̾m̸͍̍ȋ̶̝l̸͔̂i̶̜͠n̵͇͆g̴͎̓.

her vision went red hot. i dont like red. everything’s going WRONG. WRONGWRONG WRONGWRONG WRONG.

the gash looks pretty, she’s learn how to decorate it. she can’t stop smiling at all, the corners of her lips rip tip adorably into a long smile. long up to her cheeks, to her ears. she’ll never stop smiling, so much lipgloss. so much cuteness. humming little tunes whilst brushing her blood matted soft hair. so morbidly adorable. a long gash right across the girl’s face the mirror!

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

my head whipped towards the snap of a twig like prey bracing— to run, to hide. they’ve seen me, they’ve seen me, they’ve peeled back my dermis and washed the floor with my blood. it smelt of sin and chloroform. because i tried cleaning my veins. i tried not to be a crime scene. do not cross. run.

kiss a boy, my lips rot straight off. he spits the mould back onto me. run

“when are you getting a boyfriend?” runrunrunrunrun oh the time is not right that’s all!

ask him out, my thumbs grow warts. i get sick whenever i try to bury IT like a disease. loneliness requires a vaccine i don’t believe i can ever afford. so i’m sick. run.

maggots rip through my arms. choke my throat. i regurgitate the parasites when his lips are on mine. they all settle at the foot of my best friend’s bed. i kill them with chloroform. run. she can’t find out. run. run. run. run.

the fawn’s brown fur was speckled with white dots and little wildflowers stuck in the softness. fawn. fawn is red, fawn ran. fawn couldn’t run. she fawned. she died.

run.

they see you. they see me whole. they cut my throat and pried out the worms i tried to kill with chloroform. the worms crawl for the warmth of another. they enjoy the rush of my blood when i see HER. so i crave, again again again i crave. but they’re my worms. parasites, feed off my pain and my sin. they see it, everyone sees it. run.

i run where my wounds take me. my slit throat bleeds river towards her red hair like my blood would never match the hue.

but i run. i can’t kiss her when i regurgitate my disgusting parasitic sins. i can’t hold her hand when i have warts growing all over me and i can’t embrace her when i’ve been dissected but not stitched back together. my maggots dig into her flesh and it shreds my heart, hearing her screams of pain. run.

i run. i run and i never look back. i don’t want to. i’m diseased and bleeding and there’s red all over me that i can’t even see and the maggots in my mouth muffle and numb my tongue when i gurgle out— i love you.

i run into his arms and bleed all over him, HE shoved maggots down my throat. i can’t run. this is safe. my skin burns and i’m a carcass. the disease under my skin squirms with discomfort and the maggots put eggs behind my eyes and i lie to him saying it’s just the look of love. but only the girl i’d given my sickness to knows what i’d looked like when i sat still. affording the vaccine of loneliness that is a disease. the relief from denial. i run. i deny. i infect. i regurgitate. i love.

do not falter. do not bend. do not let them see the effort behind your grace. do not falter. do not bend.

keep. your spine. straight.

do not let your companions see the beads of sweat bleed through your pores. do not stumble as you twirl. do not reach your bleeding palms out. you do not beg. you are better than this.

keep it fucking straight.

doll

your visions for perfection are confined within the limitations of your mortal meat. you cannot escape to the stars or to the heavens where pink peonies lay around the stage surrounded by your admirers. this is what you want, you can get it.

only if you,

stand on pointe and let your ankles bleed from the hollowing of tendons, then you’ll have played the best dancer on that stage. only if you keep your back straight.

look up into those lights shining down at you, they’re looking at you. yes, you. and if you hesitate, if your bone inches slightly towards relief, bend back, pull the string tied to your spinal cord no matter how tightly it tugs at your nerves. the best puppet is a puppet that never feels pain. never falters.

that keeps it’s back straight, sweetheart.

perfect yourself until you feel porcelain harden where soft malleable flesh sat over meat and bone. now you won’t break. now you’re beautiful, elegant, graceful. your skin will not break out in sweat and your ankles won’t bleed. you’ll spin on a beautiful stage with beautiful music chiming with delicate notes floating in the air around your lovely form.

[i hope you’ve kept yourself in form.] sweetheart ♡

twirl, hop, spin, dance, smile, wave, arch.

doesn’t matter if you’re dizzy. you’ve always been a little ditzy anyway, a little clumsy. a bunny that doesn’t know how to hop.

twirlhopsindancesmilewavearch.

that’s it. keep dancing. your dress glitters beautifully i’m sure. nothing is beautiful about you though. maybe if you just

twirlledhoppedspundancedsmiledwavedandarched, more.

beautiful, you are beautifu—

snap.

shuts the music box. darkness. oh, the doll is useless until someone cracks open the music box you’ve hid yourself in. how lonely. maybe you can practice how to not bleed. meticulously tweak your wrists and neck and shoulders to look like the swan you wish to be.

then you’ll be spun in your pretty little music box again, my lovely ballerina. your spine never belonged to you. you spineless wretch.

and so i put on my braces for ELEVEN. FUCKING. MONTHS. okay!? ELEVEN MONTHS.

andiknowwhatyourethinking

ellie, eleven months is nothing compared to how long other people who wear braces.

I KNOW! I KNOW OKAY!? TRUST ME I KNOW. BUT LET ME COMPLAIN.

I WANT TO PEEL MY GUMS LIKE THE COVERING OF A BANANA AND POP MY TEETH OUT OF THEIR SOCKETS.

AND NOW I GOTTA WEAR FUCKING SARAN WRAP OVER MY TEETH??? FUCK YOU.

The nurse hands me those fucking abominations of dental procedures and goes “so, put these on for a MINIMUM of 20 hours a day alright?”

DID I HEAR YOU RIGHT? YOU WANT ME TO JAIL MY TEETH AND CHOKE THEM IN PLASTIC FOR 20 HOURS?

I’m gonna start boxing without a mouth guard so I can loose my teeth. because no way am I going to commit to this sensory hell that is having a thick ass packaging in my mouth. might as well put bubble wrap in there. go all the way and put metal in it. OH RIGHT, those are called BRACES HOW COULD I FUCKING FORGET

FUCLKKSDJDJDJDJDJKFSJSH&/₹:₹:/&-)-?-?-)-)-??-!-!:?:?/?/!

point being, if you’re insecure about your teeth and considering braces. unless they’re affecting your bite or health. DO NOT GET BRACES. IT IS NOT WORTH PLAYING BREAK YOUR JAW SIMULATOR 24/7 365.

shove the barrel of a gun down my throat and make me regurgitate all my sins, i’m not your daughter but a walking bag of sin that ripped through your womb. make me play russian roulette with my hands tied with the ribbons you put in my hair. i’m not your daughter but a sick monster that leaves disgusting footprints you wish to clean and sanitise with hot irons and lashing leather.

have me break my bones and then sneer at the mess. complain about my lack of usefulness and then lift the leather, so i can only hear the clink of the lasher as it rushes down onto bruised skin. i am not your daughter but an amputated limb. let me cry hot acidic tears and then sleep questioning whether i mattered.

i can’t see mummy’s face. her eyes look like they’ve seen a monster, but she’s looking at me?

mummy, why are your eyes so big?

mummy, why are you holding that brush?

mummy, isn’t that meant for my pretty hair?

mummy stop.

my skin is red, i won’t do it again. it hurts. i’ll clean my toys up. no, you’re breaking it. there’s red on the floor. i’m i was only five.

mummy? mom? do you love me? am i pretty? am i clean? am i good? am i smart? mummy?

mom? mom. fuck you.

but i would never say that to you, because the barrel is shoved down my throat and you’ve kicked my ribs until they break and puncture my lungs, i bleed and deflate like the hollowed balloons following my 10th birthday. only im not so colourful, nor am i so clean. nor do i serve any purpose in a celebration. mom. please. mom. it hurts. mommy? am i a good person?

smother me with a pillow and say you were rocking me to sleep. i would believe you, mom.

mummy says, “mummy only lashes ellie because mummy loves her little girl. if she didn’t love ellie she’d let the girl go out of line!”

i show mummy im good. i line my teddies up, i share my toys with my sister. i be the best girl mummy knows.

mummy i spilled water while trying to clean up.

i won’t ever clean up again mummy, but my knees hurt. the brush is laying there broken, you can’t do my pretty hair again. and mummy is breathing so loudly. i cried for so long but i kept tugging at her sleeve. mummy, hugs?

she walks away.

my teddies are lined up, my toys are shared. mummy won’t look at me.

fuck you.

you’re the worst human alive.

don’t ever call me. and i won’t ever call you. but my books are lined up and my pens are shared. i believe that lashes are love and care is a lie. your hot iron brands itself on my skin without asking for consent. i can’t believe you’re my mother. i can’t believe i came from your womb. i can’t believe you’d make your own blood bleed.

“hey ellie? mummy loves you so much, you know that? you’re the sweetest girl i know.”

i love you too mum. but put the brush away.

my heart has grown frail, chipped away at and beaten black and blue— the swan’s fatal heartbreak a tale as old as time.

but one day my love won’t pour endlessly with no destination in sight. one day the riverines of romance and hope will meet the sparkling, glittering ocean like a soft kiss. one day someone will treat me with seraphic gentleness. my lover will find my voice chattering away the details of my day to be mellifluous— in reverie of who i am, playful fascination and musing like i am my lover’s favourite painting come to life.

one day my lover will hold my hand, and i will find the quiet warmth of their palm akin to finding soft drapes of a blanket over my cold frostbitten being. one day my lover will know me by the bubbles of my laughter, and i will know my lover by the notes of vanilla or citrus in her perfume, i will feel my heart burst into fragments of rare precious gems as dawn rises in the form of a person— my lover.

one day i will be woken up with the soft callings of my name, or a nickname my lover has given me— darling? she will hum, and i would forget how the soulless chimes of my phone alarm ever sounded back when i was lonely.

one day, i will stand in our warm kitchen, silken jazz notes delicately pour into the air as i bake my lover the warmest pastries she desires. i will have flour dusted on my cheeks and a lovestruck smile stretched across my well-kissed lips. my lover will come from behind me to dust the powder away and replace the space on my cheeks with her chaste kisses. i will giggle like i’ve never known anything but love.

one day my lover will smile at me as she slides a bow into my dark locks, watch adoringly as i spin in lace and frills and pink. she will call me her baby, she will bring me close and peck my blush dusted cheeks. i will be her sweet girl.

one day i will walk out of work with tired lines that lift into smile lines as i see my lover standing with a bouquet of pink peonies, her smile is ensoleille — filled with so much wonder and happiness it makes me question how one mortal heart can contain it.

one day i will let my lover rest over my chest, to the soft thump of my heart below my skin. she will know every little beat is for her, a sempiternal aubade, because my lover is my dawn. i will play with her hair and think of her as nothing but elysian.

one day, we will look at old pictures of ourselves and wish we’d met sooner. i’d tell my lover how long i’ve waited for her, and a kiss will drop on my forehead. i will be pulled close. i will pull my lover close. our ribs complete each other’s contours.

one day my lover’s vision in my head wont be an ombrielle. she will be true, for me, with me. as i am with her.

one day i will be held, my lover will hold me like she never intends to let me go. like i was made to be held. one day i will meet my lover, and until that day i write love letters with hearts in my eyes. i love you.

with lipstick kisses on your envelope,

ellie ⋆ ˚｡౨ৎ ⋆˚🧸ྀི

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

abuse, mizi could never escape. that much was known.

whether that be her abusive parents beating her little face till her veins broke under skin and bruised purple.

or that her amazing stylist pulled her neckline a smidge lower so that it would ‘flatter’ her more.

flatter her? or the loud cheers of blushing men ready to bite into their plump, dancing, pretty little meal.

dance for us mizi <3

all of this she would never leave, but through all of this a girl never left her.

sua needed to love mizi

when mizi held her hand under an orange sun, scoffing as she called the inky haired doe a pushover, sua needed to love mizi. when mizi danced and stumbled over her own feet in front of a panel of leering men, sua needed to love her.

when the pink haired girl she’d known her whole life went on stage with her long locks that sua had run her hands through hundreds of times, sparkle in her eyes and all— sua knew she needed to love her.

when she’d started seeing her girl from the neck below more than she saw her beautiful green eyes and the soft blushing cheeks, she knew…

she needed to consume mizi, even if it meant she herself would get swallowed in the process. sua would walk into the mouth of the beast with a needy smile on her flushed face if it meant in the beast’s stomach she’d find her lover.

even if mizi herself told her not to follow, she’d follow. a slap on her face left the red sting that painted her paleness alongside the blush of desperation that rushed to her face. nothing else the dark haired girl needed more than being with her lover. she needed mizi.

she’d press her soft lips against mizi’s in hopes of reigniting some warmth, some sort of recognition in her lover’s heart, whilst wholly aware that her eyes were darting over a rotted face, melting blood and scooped out identities laying bloody all over the floor around mussed pink hair. all the months of ignorance and distance led to this, sua knew. all those times she had to see her own girlfriend surrounded by watching eyes of managers and security guards, all those times she had to meet mizi through the eyes of perverse fans and needy men, trying to flow through the crowd as if she was on the same level of these nobodies. that is what led to this. and she would fix her girl if she had to rot alongside her. candied rot she was.

all she wanted was to see the world through her girl’s eyes!

all she ever wanted was to be there for her. and now here she was, standing hand in hand with a girl in pink frills and pigtails that matched her dress, sua was there for her, but was mizi there at all?

face bled off, heart shaped blood stains and slow rot tearing through the girl’s faces, leaving only bodies to be watched as they twirled prettily for the eyes of cheering, flushed admirers. though the girls themselves had no clue what was being admired on them.

men cheered as sua reached for her girlfriend’s chin, leaning to press another one of those chaste kisses, the pink girl’s broken face faltered, as if for a moment in time there was a snip of recognition in her atrophying brain. why were these people cheering? was it for their love? or what if it was that two pretty little dolls were playing with each other? the picture of sensuality.

little girls dressed up as sexy ladies, and ladies dressed up as sexy little girls. that’s the game of dress up they were always taught, now only under a blinding spotlight.

sua had consumed mizi, she’d done what she had to do, held her hand one last time and received nothing but a limp palm that didn’t squeeze back, her rotting heart broke quicker, not from whatever plague tore through her cells but from ripping pain, mizi wasn’t even there for her. after all these years, even now she was just there for these nobodies, for these people. they didn’t even love her. they only loved the way the mounds of flesh moved on her chest as she jumped and hopped.

black sheep came, fearful under those rectangle pupils, yet brash as they held those petite arms down, mizi onto the spinning dartboard, and heartbroken sua onto the table. mizi’s childish little voice hummed and chimed as she sang. sua was consumed by mizi this time. gladly she supposed. ♡

i love mizi sm maybe that’s why i wrote through the pov of her girlfriend

short girls.

girls with bangs cut impulsively at 3am on the bedroom floor.

girls with freckles dusted over their cheeks like powdered sugar on sweet dessert.

girls with curly hair that spring and spiral down her back in bouncy rings.

girls.

girls with under eye bags and a run through stash of glucose instant energy pills.

girls with ambition and 20 unfinished assignments.

GIRLSSSS.

girls with kohl around their eyes.

girls who are masters at classical arts.

girls with straight hair that flows like ink or golden threads or firey waves.

i’m gay.

girls with round cheeks and full curves.

girls with high cheekbones and sharp frames.

masculine girls.

feminine girls.

girls who are both.

girls who are neither.

girls with big dreams.

girls who haven’t been allowed to dream and are finally learning.

girls who are hopeless romantics.

girls who want to take over the world.

trans girls who’ve transitioned.

trans girls who have yet to transition.

trans girls who don’t worry about transitioning.

desi girls, arab girls, black girls, east asian girls, white girls, latina girls.

i’m heavily lesbian.

girls are sooooooooo pretty.

so many beautiful girls and so little time to kiss them all.

with lipstick kisses on your envelope,

ellie ˚.🎀༘⋆

mourn me like i’m already dead, like my carcass has been tied tight and mummified in a tomb. marble and sealed shut.

mourn me because of the way i die every day in front of you, bleeding out in a crowded room while you laugh and glow. mourn me because i can never stop mourning you. at least that makes one of us.

mourn me because you couldn’t love me. grieve for me because you couldn’t hold me.

tell me that you wished you told me you loved me, not because you did, but because for at least a brittle moment i wouldn’t feel like i’m treading a broken path in miserable circles.

mourn me because every second i spend loving someone who doesn’t bother looking my way, i lose myself. your glow doesn’t warm me. mourn my dried up veins and my strangled throat. mourn me from my atrophied heart to my shattered skin, once loved under your fingertips now hated under mine.

mourn me so i feel like my death matters. mourn me so i know i ever mattered.

mourn me because it kills me that you don’t care. murderer.

I made the horrible mistake of scrolling on Reddit one dry and cold evening— why did I find myself in the capital of ‘i-didn’t want to see that’? I have no idea— but a better question to ask would be what did I find that made me want to steer away from my usual theme of writing?

How does a human being come up with something so disgustingly vile and revolting. how much darker can men’s fantasies of women get?

How much more can we be reduced until men start fantasising about fucking the space between our atoms?

Time and time again women have been subjected to restrictions that remove everything that makes them human, autonomy. A vagina can’t say no.

They want to tell you— there is no woman to reduce, this doesn’t feel like this is an act of dehumanisation because, in their eyes, there was no human to strip anything from, to think, there are people who’ve rotted with hate so much that they think women are to be cut up like fruits and relished piece by piece.

One thing that stuck with me in particular was this line he’d oh so generously typed out for our knowledge:

the torso is the only good part.

The blatant stripping of a woman down to her orifices. This led me down a rabbit hole and I ended up deeply disturbed (I need sleep). And I attempted to explore the structures and effects of such extreme dehumanisation through the horrifying case of the ‘Rape Academy’. Either way, read with caution.

Defining rape culture

To first unpack this alarming internet niche, we must define the social systems these types of discussions contribute to— a big pillar of patriarchal society, rape culture

According to the UN*1 rape culture is defined as “the social environment that allows sexual violence to be normalized and justified, fueled by the persistent gender inequalities and attitudes about gender and sexuality.”

The real life execution of rape ideation— The Rape Academy:

Gore-y fantasies with women as the subject of them are becoming a growing internet subculture, with entire subreddits (that I’ve had the displeasure of having to surf through for this article) dedicated towards posting and consuming content revolving around this topic, have become a gnawing concern for many. And this is mainly due to the anonymity the perpetrators get to maintain whilst actively participating in homicidal and sexual assault ideation.

Nth rooms, telegram groupchats, r/rapekink subreddits, these sorts of harmful and dehumanising sites are growing awfully more and more accessible to men and teenage boys, pushing the boundaries of consent and a woman’s identity in sexual scenarios.

Every few months there’s a new shocking discovery of an underground website being accessed by millions and millions of men— one recent and notable one being Rape Academy, a community involving millions of men^*2 who share tips on how to drug and sexually assault their female partners— and how to get away with it.

In a CNN investigation^*3 published on the 26^th of March 2026, they describe the same phenomenon of emboldened perpetrators veiled under anonymity, saying— “Men in these groups operate shielded by the anonymity of the internet. But they also find a sense of community and perverse camaraderie, as they normalize abuse.”

How women pay the price

Survivor Valentina – a mother of two who lives in northern Italy and who asked CNN not to use her real name – said she, too, has a hard time trusting anyone.

“I can’t conceive of the fact that a woman could be treated like slaughterhouse meat. Because in the end, that’s what I was,” — from the investigation Exposing a global ‘rape academy’

Valentina’s testimony suggests a grim possibility that the line between the self and the objectifying perception of an abuser may be blurred. This isn’t to say all rape victims internalise their abuser’s view of them, but the testimony reveals how the reduction of one’s autonomy to even know what’s happening to them may leave a long-lasting stain on their sense of self.

Another heartbreaking layer of abuse these women face is gaslighting. Since the assaults took place while the women were under the influence of sleeping pills, some of them reported through testimonies that their sense of reality felt warped. In Valentina’s words to CNN, she said:

“I was lucky to find the videos because truly it would have been a bit... difficult to believe, because I had no marks,"

Amanda Stanhope’s testimony revealed the direct words of her abuser, calling her ‘mental’ and causing her to question her perception of reality—

“He would then turn on me and say, ‘well, you’re on too much medication. You must be imagining it. That didn’t happen. You’re mental. You’re crazy,’” she said.

“So even though I felt 100% sure that something had happened... he was trying to change my reality, (saying) that it hadn’t happened, even though the physical signs were there.”

The loss of self on a societal level was talked about in Zoe Watts’ testimony, She’d discovered that her husband of 16 years had been crushing their son’s sleeping pills into her tea and raping her while she was asleep, and her entire world had shattered.

She spoke of the judgements and assumptions people had about marital abuse, saying,

“I've had people say: ‘Yeah, but he's your husband,’ or ‘but you weren't awake.’ ‘So... it's not the same as being taken down an alleyway, is it?’”

Zoe Watts’ reflection of how her abuse had been perceived by society is another important depiction of rape culture, that certain acts of sexual assault shouldn’t be treated with seriousness and empathy because it’s not the worst it can get. But truly, how far is too far? How much suffering gives survivors a right to demand answers and justice? Why is there a scale for how much abuse is acceptable abuse?

Self-doubt, stigma, injustice, physical and mental trauma, these are only a few examples of the harm such extreme violence against women can cause. Please note that the testimonies I’ve included in this essay are ones I’ve chosen because they relate to the commentary I’m making and aren’t universal truths about every survivor of drug facilitated sexual assault and/or sexual assault, but only a few instances of the societal, physical and emotional harm the extreme dehumanisation of women can lead to.*4

Final Note:

The correlation between the initial reddit post screenshot and my deep dive into the sleep drug ‘rape academy’ might be blurry— but the underlying themes remain the same. A perpetrator’s pleasure comes from extreme power dynamics and holding all the strings to a woman’s self. From the ‘fuck nugget’ to the drugged victims of the ‘Zzz’ groupchat husbands, the common denominator is the fantasy of stripping a woman down to the parts that serve their perverse minds.

These are only the most extreme examples of a woman’s reduction. Rape culture and dehumanisation fantasies are sold to men and women alike. For men, women are depicted as conquests to set right with sexual domination. On the other hand women are socialised to believe that their ultimate fantasy is to be tamed by a stronger, meaner male. Porn has been observed to show increasingly violent, coercive and graphic captions and scenarios that may desensitize it’s viewers to such grave acts, pushing the boundaries from taboo to downright criminal.*5 Little boys being the ‘man who’s going to break a lot of hearts in the future’ and little girls who’s fathers are told that they ‘have to keep her safe since boys are going to be all over her’ are subtle, silent examples of how rape cultures and male-female power dynamics are reinforced within the family and even as young as infancy.

It is important to talk about these subjects even louder as society tries to reduce them to isolated incidents or actions not bad enough to be called out. No perpetrator should feel like they are more entitled to humanity than their victim, and systems that reinforce these beliefs must be questioned and challenged. Women aren’t mannequins to dress up and enjoy or strip and engage in sex with. Women should never have to lose their trust in the innocence of people, no woman should be a ‘survivor’— they shouldn’t have to ‘survive’ anything. And a society that fantasizes about erasing a woman’s self until she doesn’t even have the right to know what’s happening to her body is a society that should be deconstructed and built from the ground up.

Resources (for anyone who needs them):

1. Domestic Violence Helpline (USA): 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

2. Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Helpline (India): +91 879308814, for women over 18 +91 7827-170-170

3. Sexual Assault Helpline (USA): 800.656.HOPE or text 64673

4. Additional Links: RAINN National Sexual Assault Helpline for US citizens

   (These were all the links I could find easy access to, if you have any other resources please let me know and I’ll link them!)

naive and young daughter, haven’t they told you? god only hears the righteous, His love only extends to the men who stand tall and fair, imposing His will with an iron fist that leaves crushed dreams and torn houses. God doesn’t hear the wicked, God doesn’t hear the flawed.

god won’t hear you.

the wretched heathens don’t deserve an abode within His heaven. jezebels don’t deserve retribution for their sins.

the all-loving god doesn’t love you, what does that say about your crooked soul, young daughter?

seek him out in any man-made path that you can, bruise your ankles, cover your skin until you blend into the shadows under the guise of modesty and spirituality, cry and choke under the weight of your sins until you grow unconscious and still— still dream of loneliness so thick it punctures your lungs. the rot will bud on you, over and over again. who are you if not abhorrent?

for you, young daughter— come with blood every moon. how dare you bring your sinful, shedding flesh into the holy church? do you not understand that this is why god won’t love you? you’ve been given innards that betray you, bleed and tear apart— god won’t love you, not unless you are of service to the man He cherishes.

oh naive daughter, come now. bring forth the fruit of your labor onto this world— even if the fruit was borne out of cries and tears rather than a blooming flower. you have to bruise something in exchange of the Lord’s approval! your father may spare you a poor pathetic glance in your direction, but the Holy Father? he doesn’t bother with the existence of a fruitless sinner. you can shed as much as you wish, sweet daughter— whether that be blood or tears. god won’t hear you.

don’t cry, you’re used to this aren’t you? tugging at your papa’s sleeve trying to show him your drawings, hoping he’d say “that looks beautiful sweetheart”

only for one flick of his wrist sending the ball jointed doll flying across the room, shedding the same tears she sheds for the fathers that won’t hear her.

don’t fret young daughter, for as your heart wilts with each cry that falls not onto deaf ears but the hollow drywall of your home— you realise not to seek for salvation anymore. if sin has become so imbued in your being, there is no use bothering the rot with meaningless prayers and pleas. let god deafen himself whenever your womanly throat shatters with grief.

come now, my love. the jezebel’s home is warm, with all the others your lord had declared unworthy. maybe you’ll find company with the spotted cats unfairly labelled ferocious. maybe you’ll enjoy a meal with the gluttonous pigs, maybe you’ll find a whorish glittering dress to match with the ostracized heathen.

their home has always welcomed more than the house of the lord ever has.

Amen.

I type this with clammy hands and chilled extremities— feet yearning to be tucked under a blanket because the blood under my skin doesn’t rush as warm as it used to. I don’t blush pink, haven’t for years. I’ve forgotten what it feels to not straddle the line between disappearance and recovery, so I sit here and wonder, was skipping dessert really worth it?

Oh how many times I could’ve laid my back on the plushness of my pillows and indulged in the buttery richness of warm toast, how many trips to an ice cream parlor I’ve refused because sugar had become akin to needles entering my bloodstream, assimilating and settling deep within my veins until it becomes another uptick of the number on my scale.

Since when did supper turn into a knife ripping open my guts presenting my insides for the mirror and the gods above? Why is every thick choking swallow of rice a testament to how famished my soul had become? To be reminded of an internal drought with every sip of my favorite chocolate milkshake, bitter beyond recognition on my tastebuds— no longer to relish, but to abhor at the same cocoa that had sparked stars in my now enervated pupils.

Was it worth it? When beauty had come at the cost of closing your eyes with the presumption that this would be my last day? Could I be beautiful when I’ve become weakened to the point where my self-contempt was the most alive part of me, even more than the heart that pulls in whatever morsel of cold, muted shades of blood and shoots it through my ghost-town of a body?

And these bones cry, frail and brittle— begging for but a crumb of affection from the mind, the calcium pleads that she is not ugly, but only trying to be the bedrock that the flesh needs even if it is to step away from another lunch.

Water is not salvation, it streams in through my gullet and out pathetically fast. Provides my naive stomach the miserable feeling of fullness and nutrition. But at night, when my eyes roll into my head and I see no dreams in my skull and only a desperate clawing for survival, I’d know that no clear liquid can hide the emaciation I exhibit.

Even if cautiously, I befriend the frosting on my cake, the nutella on my bread, the curry and meat over my warm rice. They missed me, and I silently yearned for them too. After all those years I’ve learned to detest the spice and explosion of flavours on my atrophied tongue, tonight I relish. No sizing chart could compare to the taste of chocolate cake.

have you eaten today?

—with lipstick kisses on your envelope,

‧˚꒰🍨꒱ ellie ₊˚⋆

hi princess ! ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა

I figured I would write a gentle little read since some of my works recently have been focused on unpacking the heavier chambers of my psyche.

While I enjoy sitting down and carefully pulling at the ribbons of my brain until my thoughts have unraveled into something I can write about— sometimes I also enjoy writing self indulgent works as well, it’s like ice cream for me after a week of healthy eating ‹𝟹

Despite all the times I’ve poured on and on about the tragedies I’ve gone through, I still take delight in being me. In gently combing through the silken strands of my curly hair, dusting on soft kisses of pink off of my makeup palette and onto my cheeks, smiling and feeling my faint dimples indent the corners of my lips as though a cherub pecked those spots endearingly. A lovely little dichotomy of woes and pink lace wrapped around one vivacious young girl.

˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙—

I’ve never been more in love with myself, and I know it’s only up from here. I’ve trusted myself enough to put myself out there, try new things, pursue new goals— It’s a positive feedback mechanism where the more I treasure my heart the more my gemstone studded glittery tiara shines ₊⊹

I’m so girly it almost repulses people. But unlike before, it doesn’t bother me now, I was encumbered at one point with the question of why people didn’t like girls like me, I seem to play into every stereotypical girly attribute and amp up the intensity to 3000— but maybe it’s the fact that I’ve reclaimed my dollheartedness (yes i coined that term ♡) that they don’t like, regardless— People who don’t like pink and hearts and love aren’t people I’d want to be friends with anyway 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི

How could anyone dislike me? A sweetheart femme lesbian with a heart that glows gold through her dusky skin, all I do is walk around smelling of Victoria’s Secret’s pure seduction body mist— the tiny specks of chatoyant shimmer glittering under the warm toasty sun. Like all the stars decided to rest on my skin during the day, before their next shift to twinkle in the night. You’d have to be crazy to find me annoying when I’d probably blow a kiss at you for simply existing, adorable!

Truth is I love being insufferably dainty, not helpless— dainty. Delicate where I get to be, keeping my heart wrapped in lovely silk and chiffon. She deserves it with everything she’s been through. Being a soft little fawn isn’t me pretending weakness, I believe it’s my biggest strength. To do what I’ve done while managing to keep my soul bright and cute and overflowing with so much love is a strength on it’s own, and I take immense pride in said strength.

There is no use of intellectualizing my love for all things girly. I love being me— loving mini skirts that flutter and swish around my thighs, wearing big bouncy curls, walking around looking like a catalogue of all the shades of pink and white that have ever existed, having eyes that would put the most adorable Blythe doll to shame— I love it all so so dearly.

Pair that with the fact that I’m a hopeful, romantic creature. Every person I meet gets 100% of the kindness and love that I can give. Be that a best friend, a lover, or a girl I’ve never seen before, I believe everyone comes to this Earth to love and to be loved, and I think my sole purpose is to be cupid incarnate and love everyone I cross paths with, my friends, my family, my classmates, the reader reading this ♡

Being a lover girl makes me feel like the beating, pulsing soul inside me is a crystal of iridescent love that refracts and bends light into shades of blush and lilac— And most times I’ll slow dance to Lover by Taylor Swift but dedicate the lyrics to myself, like I’m chasing after my own affection in a rom-com starring me and my magical self

˚₊‧꒰ა 🎀 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

I truly hope that somehow in some way me writing so affectionately and lovingly about myself will make someone appreciate the little loveable things in yourself too, we all deserve affection from ourselves, it’s really a shame we can’t kiss ourselves on the forehead or the cheek— but luckily we can always write love letters to the self ᥫ᭡

with lipstick kisses on your envelope,

˚₊‧꒰ა ellie ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

I lost my virginity this year, and initially I was in the high of hitting a major milestone— everything I talked about and thought about was that, “omg I got fucked!”

And don’t get me wrong, there’s no shame in flexing your absolutely mind blowing first time with someone you know and trust— lesbian sex is hard not to talk about.

But for me, sex became a selling point in my desirability and not something I did for myself. Telling other people that I did it felt like I finally have the valid woman tag on my forehead, I’m finally one of the cool kids. This sentiment seems silly for someone who claims to have deconstructed the patriarchal values and constant sexualization of women, especially queer women— but this icky, gross tendency of mine to treat my sexuality and intimate life as a marketing tactic and not something I did for my soul, my pleasure and my body has been an issue that’s persisted for years.

When I was 10 years old and growing more and more aware of how the world saw me as a body first and a girl next— classmates and teachers alike would point out how ‘obscene’ and ‘vulgar’ my developing breasts were. Example: one time I made the horrible mistake of not wearing the school assigned uniform, instead a simple t-shirt and jeans, innocent enough for a little girl right? Wrong, apparently I couldn’t be more whorish than that— instead a teacher took it upon herself to cover my chest with a shawl, telling me it was my responsibility to make sure the boys in my class didn’t get distracted by my enormous chest. That day I sobbed in the dirty bathroom stalls until my ribs closed in on my lungs and I had to call home to be picked up.

That instance left such a mark on me, I still feel the hot searing branding of that day melt my flesh straight off, ready to be candied and dollified for the eyes of whoever wants to see. A 10 year old’s insane rack!

When I was 15 and in the trenches of my mental state— I was convincing myself that having a boyfriend I wasn’t attracted to was better, rather than risking being single and living the reality of being seen as unattractive or someone that can’t get boys or love. I went on dates to the beach with a boy who ripped a precious experience from me, I grieve the girl I was before he shoved his tongue down my throat. I squealed then, because having your first kiss means you’re finally accepted. A man approves of you? Great! You’re finally human to us.

Two dates later, I was in a car sitting on his lap, my friends on either side of me while me and him were in the middle of the backseat, my friend’s boyfriends watching me through the rearview mirror— watching me get groped by a boy while he was rock hard under me and I was on the verge of tears.

Truth is I fawned, pretended to enjoy it, play up my sensuality as much as a 15 year old could. I pretended because at least acting it out gave me some agency on what was happening. I was a whore and I enjoyed it

I dated a girl in November, she broke up with me because she didn’t like how I responded to a man writing out his dykebreaking and conversion rape fantasies in my snapchat DMs. Because apparently me telling him no and me telling him I was taken somehow equated to me not fighting back hard enough. Why didn’t you block him? Ma’am, it was 3am and I was half asleep. Even my responses to being sexualized are somehow wrong. I was a whore and I enjoyed it

Even recently, during the first weeks of university— I’ve gotten more ‘Ella you have an insane pair’ comments than a simple “Hi what’s your name?”. I talked about my values, my hopes and my dreams and all people managed to take away from it was my cup size and how fuckable my tits are. I wish I was talking about straight men.

I thought that being queer and being a woman absolved these people of their sins. It didn’t make their comments any less vile and it didn’t make me feel any less like two round pieces of fat resting on dead bone. I exist existed only to be fucked.

Truth is I’ve been told that I was good enough to have sex with but never good enough to be loved. My love life is just my sex life. My bedroom is less a sanctuary and more a gallery of every time I let myself become an escort who gets paid in I-love-yous and you-matters, only if you make me cum.

I’m letting myself be brutally in pain as I write this, my eyes dragging down as if they don’t want to cry but the oceans and oceans of agony want nothing but to bang the gates wide open and flood everything in sight. No matter where I seek love, I find hurt, I find selfishness. Everyone wants me, no one wants to know me. Everyone tells me I’m attractive, but never that I’m loveable, that I’m worthy of commitment and care. I’ve always been a body first and a person next. Everytime someone touches me it feels like they’re leaving another brand, X person was here. Sex as I imagined it, was something I expected to leave a mark, and leave a mark it did. Graffiti on a urinal.

I feel a visceral, hollow bleeding hurt in my chest, yeah.. That place between my tits. I have so much love to give, I have so much to say. I want to kiss someone’s forehead and hold them until they sleep and wake them up with breakfast in bed. Can someone fall in love with me if they haven’t seen me naked?

But I still want love. Oh god I want love so badly. I want a girlfriend, a partner, someone to go through the rollercoaster of life. I want someone who doesn’t make me wonder if I look sexy enough while I ride them. I don’t want to perform desirability, I don’t want to market myself to be worthy of love. I certainly don’t want that searing burn on my skin whenever someone kisses my neck. Please reach for my fucking heart before you search for where the zipper to my skirt is. I’m begging you.

(my sweet little sign off would feel out of place today, but thank you for reading darling ♡)

— ellie

I look forward to my future more than the average person I’d say. I do everything in my power to visualize and manifest my perfect happy ending, and on most days I’m filled with this almost childlike, naive hope and optimism about my life. I have unwavering confidence that with the effort I put in with my life, my career and community building, my future will turn out exactly how I want it to.

Unfortunately, that’s almost always never the case. My life never followed a linear path, and no matter how much I tried to shift the probabilities into bringing about my preferred outcome— somehow, somewhere, there’ll always be something that goes wrong, that blows up in my face horribly, and makes me want to never try again.

I’ve faced rejection after rejection, breakup after breakup, setback after setback and yet somehow my heart always returns to the one thing that fuels my whole life— hope.

And recently, after a long spiral caused by a PMS induced hormonal whirlwind— I began to ask myself the question, why do I hope when it is so much less exhausting to let go of that constant confidence that life wont disappoint me, and why do I keep trying if there’s a chance it’s all in vain?

I’m going to start of with a personal experience that is hilariously stupid considering this is supposed to be a thought provoking almost philosophical personal essay— but stay with me now,

Gacha games are a mind wreck speedrun, you know this, I too know it. But that didn’t stop me from gambling all my (in-game) funds away for a certain pink haired character I’ve been yearning after for months. In the end I lost her, did that stop me? no. I had zero funds left for her, and 20 measly days to at least try my hand at pulling for her again. The next grueling 24 hours I sat in my room like a stereotypical sweaty discord mod with an unhealthy gambling addiction staring at my screen with inhuman levels of conviction.

How does a gambling addiction tie into hope? I really don’t know. What I do know is that life is literally a gamble every single second. You gamble on your life when your cells multiply and your immune cells need to kill off the cancerous ones to prevent you from dying. Every microsecond you flip a coin between life and death. The fact that I’ve been gambling for 18 years and managed to always wake up another day is in itself a beautiful and frankly terrifying fact.

Unlike the gacha example, there is no ‘90 pulls and it’s a 50/50, another 90 pulls and it’s guaranteed’ system in real life. Unfortunately every pursuit, action and decision can have billions of different outcomes, many of which we’d very much not prefer. You can study really well to move abroad, but life may throw a new variable into the picture that makes that goal now unattainable. You can reach out to like minded people in efforts to build community, only to find that there is no one in your immediate surroundings like you. There is a chance nothing you do ever works out in your favour.

So why even bother trying? Why choose to wake up another day? Why go to school, or do that job, or have dreams at all when there is such uncertainty? Why not just accept what you have today and let tomorrow be tomorrow?

We’ve all been told to let the future be the future, and to focus on the now. For an anxious daydreamer like myself that’s like being asked to pass a thread through a needle with my eyes closed. I truly enjoy visualising a beautiful future where I’m in London, studying cosmetic science and making glittery lip glosses for a living, going out to queer hosted parties and coming home to an apartment in the same block as my best friends and rooming with my girlfriend.

It sounds so silly, the most basic, mundane dreams one could have. But this is all I’ve wanted in life. To be surrounded by love while doing what I love. Yet somedays all my efforts feel so futile, like I’m chasing after a wind I’ll never catch up to, a scam created by my love deprived brain. It feels like my dreams will remain as just that, dreams.

But to answer my own question, I think dreams are less about accomplishing them and more about what they give you today. My dreams help me wake up and get out of bed in the morning, they make me want to study hard, network, be optimistic and open to people and opportunities, they help me turn my life into a lovely colourful garden where goals and aspirations bloom all year round, the trees and grass stays evergreen even if it’s raining or there’s a blizzard.

Dreams and hope keep you alive today so that the light and warmth in your heart power you to create a lighter, warmer tomorrow. Humanity has always sought out the tiniest streams of golden and glowing hope in the pitch dark reality of the world. There is always a universal resisting force that keeps us all alive to see another day, that is hope. To stand up against adversaries, to grab life by it’s horns and steer it towards the light and paradise that we seek, we need to hope for that future first. Nothing is promised, and that’s what makes dreaming and wishing so much more precious. In a world where not even your next hour is guaranteed, we imagine our next 10 years, our future friends, marriages, jobs, art, houses we haven’t moved into, sights we haven’t seen

Nothing being guaranteed has a charm of it’s own— you don’t know if things will go your way. But what if they go even better than what you could’ve imagined? What if things do work out? What if your efforts pay off?

Naive optimism, at least for me, manages to drag me through the depths of hopeless and helpless hell and back out into the open where I can breathe and try another day. I’ve always clung to this mindset that I’m always going to try my hand at life no matter how many times it disappoints me because as long as I don’t give up my chances are non zero. The second I truly stop striving for the life I dream of is the second I have genuine guarantee of the outcome, nothing.

Many times the guarantee of nothing felt better than the uncertainty of everything— I was much likely to give up and crumble under the weight of having to hope every single day and just tell myself ‘whatever happens, happens’. But that’s never done me any good, and frankly it only made me realise that I had to find a better way to carry this hope in my chest before the warmth becomes a blazing, sore heat.

I’m going to be honest, I’m still very scared of my future. I still have days where I cry in bed imagining everyone fulfilling their dreams and me being left out watching life happen to me instead of experiencing it. I’m scared of never finding real friendships, of never becoming the cosmetic chemist I dream of being, of never finding a partner that loves me as much as I love them, of never leaving the country and starting anew. I’m horrified that any of these dreams will have some variable thrown at them and suddenly I can’t hope for these things anymore. I will never not have days where I’m pathetically staring at my ceiling and wondering if any of this is going to be worth it in the end.

But like many before me and many after me and many alongside me doing this whole life thing, even if it isn’t a silly gacha game with percentage chance calculations or a way to predict the outcomes, I’m going to try, even with this black hole of fear and uncertainty in my chest I want to try, fight this with naive, childlike optimism and daydreaming. If there are people who found love and light during wars, during years where being queer meant losing your job or worse your life, during times where joy just felt so bleak, then so can I. If people can cross oceans to create a life they feel excited to live in, then so will I. Outcomes and certainty be damned— I will do it whatever may be the outcome, I will make a beautiful life for myself— and I will fill it with all the things I dream of. Maybe not in London exactly how I imagined, maybe not the queer community my brain can conjure up, maybe not meeting my lover in the exact way I think I’ll meet them in the timeline I hope to meet them in, but someday, in some way, I will find a way. We all find a way, somehow we always do.

As for answering the title of my article— I bother with uncertainty because I’d rather be uncertain about building a beautiful, full life than be certain while settling for a life I don’t want. We live a long 80 years on average, fill it with evidences of your pursuits and a gallery of mistakes, plot twists, unexpected wins, and fulfilled dreams. Remember: the life you’re building is happening this very second.

With lipstick kisses on your envelope,

Ellie ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I’d grow up to be like one of those Barbie dolls. There was always a part of me that’s always been attracted to the hyper girly, pink, sparkly and doll-like, specific emphasis on pink.

If you know me, and if it isn’t deathly obvious by how Barbie’s dreamhouse coded my page is— I really, really adore feminine and dainty aesthetics and visuals. Not just that, I love embodying that very energy. From having softest eyes to letting my voice sound like a gentle kiss from a cherub whenever I’m talking to my darls, every moment I spend I’m mindful of how overjoyed I am to be perceived as sweet, glittering and lovely.

Many a time I’ve been told that this was too much, that I was inviting trouble, making myself appear like prey. Looking like a delicate lamb.

Does looking like a lamb mean I’m suddenly supposed to accept being butchered?

At the end of 2024 I had the biggest shockwave ripple through me that I never liked boys at all, and rather it was all a performance where I was being spun like a porcelain ballerina in a delicate music box. You might be asking yourself why my lesbian realisations matter in this article, and for a while I too wondered the same thing, why did me realising that I was gay make me feel more comfortable with my femininity?

I love being a girl, I love being a girly girl, and what’s more girly than liking girls?

Jokes aside, I think a major part of it comes from not having my expression of femininity be directly tied to how it plays into men’s, or rather— the patriarchy’s perception of me. For so long my womanhood and girlhood were bound to being validated through a man’s gaze— he had the power to approve or reject what was ‘girl enough’ for me. Every long lasting situationship, every hopeless boyfriend I was with, they all had me feeling like being a girl meant giving. Giving your heart away, sense of self away, your love for pink away.

Now I want to emphasize the last part. I had given up liking these soft, angelic aesthetics and my love for everything slow and magical because I believed those things made me vulnerable, made me weak. Every movie portrayed the girls who liked pink and makeup and pop music as shallow, evil or just downright dumb, made only to be pursued or mocked by a man and nothing more. But constantly performing what society deemed to be ‘strength’ put me in the worst depressive slumps ever. I didn’t like wearing ripped jeans and having short hair, as much as I liked seeing it on other girls. (this just in, ellie’s type in girls was tomboys, not her personal aesthetic)

So realising I was a lesbian meant I had a community who saw femininity as not a token to exploit, but a beauty to cherish. People didn’t like that I looked like someone to be loved, someone to be taken care of, someone to hold in your arms gentle until she falls asleep and you hear the soft beats of her heart beneath those ribs, like a gentle bunny pressing her paw against the calcite cages in a rhythmic fashion. And funny thing about lesbians is that we love taking care of each other in the exact way I talked about. I love the thought of a gentle butch taking me into their arms and letting me curl against their chest knowing I’m soft and loved for it and not despite it. And I love standing up for them when it matters, in a bar, in front of family, wherever. Because I’ve never been weak. Im just more receptive to the cycles of romance. Loving women helped me love the things I hated in myself, case in point— how ‘woman’ I was. How much I didn’t seem like a stereotypical girlboss.

Now the femme label is something I have so much love for. I’m a woman who loves women, who loves everything women say, do, think and stand for. Femme no longer means an invitation to be used, but rather a declaration that I am adored. Femme means I get to protect the ones I love, whilst also calling to be worshipped and cared for. For every femme I’ve dated that I’ve experimented lipstick shades with delicate kisses all over each other’s cheeks— to every butch that’s leaned down to tie my shoelaces for me. Femme means to share love, affection, and be equally receiving of the care I put out.

My femininity is rooted in a delicate balance of being an angry and political 18 year old girl, but also a princess that lets the moonlight dance on her skin through her open window and let the silvery beams sparkle off her body glitter. I let myself and my heart open to the world with love like a darling, luscious hibiscus during her bloom. Pink to me isn’t a ‘girl’s color’— it’s a lover’s color. She carries the passion and fire of the color red alongside the gentleness and delicate wispiness of white. Every shade of pink tells a different story— from hot pink being bold, unforgiving and in your face, to baby pink feeling like the gentle caress of your cotton pajamas after a long day at work. My femininity, my femme identity, my love for this one color— they’re all rooted in one central thing I almost can never stop talking about, love.

So now after writing this article, I’ll go blow the moon a kiss, peck a girl on her nose, curl my hair, spritz my Victoria’s Secret pure seduction body shimmer mist all over my body, curl up in my soft sheets and rest knowing this article had no point but expressing that this is the way I love pink. (Or rather, have grown to love it <3)

- With lipstick kisses on your envelope,

Ellie ♡ 🎀𓂃 ࣪˖

“How could he love this world if he never loved himself?”

I don’t know the exact origins of this quote, but the reason it stuck with me was not because I related deeply, but because I didn’t relate to it at all.

I love this world, I love the people, I love my family, I love communities, I love humans.

But I don’t seem to apply in the ‘love for humans’ category.

It might be because I see myself as an alien wearing the skin of an 18 year old girl and looking into human civilisations to study it— I don’t include myself in any of these discussions about community or personhood because.. well. I feel outcast.

And this is majorly self inflicted, my stubborn unwillingness to accept that I too am human and thus by my logic of ‘loving this world’, I too deserve love from myself has driven me in circles around conversations about self love. To me, loving myself feels like shining a light in the dark and making a gamble— if it’s a formation of sparkly crystals, I’ll love it. If it’s a bear waiting to maul me, guess I’m either running or playing dead.

Because we’re all human, there is no guarantee that every time you choose to reflect you’ll find something you like, sometimes you’ll discover something you consider utterly repulsive about yourself. And part of me learning to treat those pieces of me with compassion is that, sometimes a bear is just a bear, and bats are just bats, even beyond analogies, I’m saying— your flaws are not here to attack you, or to wage war against your psyche. You are no more or less flawed than the person next to you on the metro. You are no more or less flawed than your favorite pop star. You don’t deserve to be called an irredeemable monster because you aren’t absolutely flawless.

Flaws don’t outcast you, flaws are what bring you into human society in the first place. The very physiology of childbirth itself is flawed. And every moment since we are born we make bad decisions, say cringey things, hurt people, stumble upon flawed morals, think we look ugly (hating your physical attributes is a whole other can of worms, I’ll write about that someday), and yet these very things are what make us.. People.

And this is not to say you should never work on your negatives and you should just accept that you’re flawed and move on being a douche to yourself and others. But working on yourself shouldn’t mean exile. Working on yourself should never mean that you look at the world and feel like you’re watching it and not experiencing it. Shine that light into all the cave systems in your soul and learn to pet that bear, even if you’re scared it’ll bite you, or turn your lights off if the bats squeak and try to get you, because sometimes love lies in choosing to stand in the dark facing your flaws without having to move an inch.

Now, coming back to my initial comment, I love this world in all its messy, cruel, twisted glory. But I also want it to be less twisted, less messy, less cruel. That doesn’t mean I love it any less— just like my desire to be better doesn’t mean that I can’t love myself through becoming better.

My love extends to every inch of this complicated, messy, dark and beautiful rock in the middle of space, every inch except the inches that encompass me. But maybe one day I will shrug when someone reminds me I’m not an all perfect being and maybe I won’t feel any less human because I’m imperfect and deeply messy. If anything, those messy bits are my ticket to humanness.

So my question isn’t “How could he love the world if he could never love himself?”

Its

“If you can love such a flawed world in the first place, certainly you must have enough of it to extend to yourself?”