A women's fitness magazine made its way to my mailbox. A few months ago, I would've devoured it. It's full of little ways to make every instant of my day wholly devoted to making my body leaner, prettier, perkier, tighter. They use the words “stronger”, and “self love”, “positive influence”, “fitness goals”, and they gleefully rationalize and validate my obsession with my body. It's ok if every thought I have in a day goes back to how I look. In between calls for me to workout even “when you don't feel 100%”, there are advertisements for supplements to help me lose weight, advertisements for injectables so I'll never look my age, all promoted by a ceaseless Insta-tribe of women to hold me “accountable” to some fitness brand.
Except this body is on loan. My body will die and return to dust. And when I get to the Gates and I'm asked what I've done to make the world a better place, I don't think “I can hold a plank for 2 minutes” is going to cut it. Nor is “I always had the dressing on the side”. Or “Nope. Didn't play with my kids a lot. I was running.”
No. I'm not buying what they're selling. Not anymore.
- Mutiny
The gold came from the burns.
She breathes fire.
It comes out her nose, her feelings, her eyes, her toes.
The others are terrified she'll burn them alive
She'd never harm a living soul but they still run and they hide
But I want her power
So useful it seems
She's able to see the corners of attics, the dust on the floors, the problems in me.
She breathes fire.
I wish I could too.
She assures me I can.
But I don't believe.
- Mutiny