Listening to Heroin by Lana Del Rey, written after seeing someone too beautiful to be burdened.
┈┈·୨ ✦ ୧·┈┈
‘Beautiful’ was the first word I ever taught myself in English. It sounded like a lullaby, but always just out of reach now. As a woman, you grow up learning that being beautiful and being looked at are inevitable. You’re taught that it’s dangerous, degrading, powerful, rewarding—sometimes all at once. I think that confusion never really leaves. It just burrows itself deeper.
┈┈·୨ ✦ ୧·┈┈
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to walk into a room and be instantly wanted. Not respected, not even liked—just wanted. Desired in the way that turns people quiet. The kind of beauty that breaks logic. Blonde. Hair extensions, or the type of hair so soft it turns heads. Full lips like ripe fruit. A body shaped by hours of sculpting and the right kind of starvation. Clothes that say, look at me, without having to beg.
┈┈·୨ ✦ ୧·┈┈
There are women who move through the world like it was made for them. I see them everywhere. On the street. Online. In movies. At cafés. And they always look so light. So unbothered.
Would I want to be that kind of woman? Yes. I think about this more than I’d like to admit.
To be looked at and not looked through.
I’d give up this sharp, spiraling, tired mind. I’d trade my taste in everything, the softness I pretend to know, the face I’ve tried to accept in mirrors. I’d hand over every piece of me, every scar and every thought that ever felt too complex to be loved. I fall into that space where people don’t turn their heads. Not because I’m hideous. But because I’m just… not memorable. Not striking. Painfully average. It’s like being a plain wallpaper in a room full of chandeliers.
And I think it is about approval too. I won’t pretend it’s not. But more than anything, it’s about ease. I imagine that being beautiful in that way must make everything feel easier. Lighter. I look at those women and think: they must wake up without dread in their chest. They must walk past mirrors without checking for damage. I know that’s probably not true. But it feels true.
┈┈·୨ ✦ ୧·┈┈
I’m aware of how much I overthink. I analyze my tone, my outfit, my posture—wondering if I’m being too much, or not enough. I can’t imagine those women doing these. I can’t imagine their dissecting themselves in the dark.
If someone offered me that other life, I would say yes. Without hesitation.
Even if it means letting go of all the parts of me I’ve spent years trying to understand.
┈┈·୨ ✦ ୧·┈┈
If this resonates with you, check out my Mirrors collection.