why am I angry?

I’m writing an essay in response to one my mother wrote, and published, and received accolades for.

I’m angry.

I’m angry, today,  that in looking for the original essay, so that I could use details from it, I came across another site using it, most likely without permission and without compensating her.

But her name is on it. And it’s my body she’s talking about.

I’m angry because in looking for the original essay, I cam across the publisher’s facebook page, where the essay is announced as “Editor’s Pick.” It received 22 shares, 120+ likes, 13 comments describing the essay as Powerful, Raw, and Honest.

It’s fucking romanticized bullshit is what it is.

And it’s my body. It’s my story.

I’d give my left tit (the fuller, and prettier of the two) for some one, any one, to read my stories. For some one, some where, to care.

For the story just to have been honest.

I had a boy friend photographer and I remember being struck that he was always trying to make me pretty in his portraits. And I am not. My brother, who used to take pictures, did a remarkably better job capturing me on film (yes, I was young back when people still used film).

 

 

 

 

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