my mother tells me there's something wrong with my posture, and I'm sorry none of my clothes are haute couture.
quit telling me my expressions aren't ladylike, why is it that everything I seem to do, you dislike?
the magazine prints say "how to fix what's wrong with your body," "don't wear that dress, it makes your hips look boxy."
we live in a society where imperfection turns out hot profit, making money by predicting trends like a fashion prophet.
some scoff behind their manicured hands, flip silky hair, tell people they’re wrong for not having any flair.
why can’t we let everyone be proud of who they are? after all, there isn’t really any set bar,
for what we’re “supposed to look like,” who we have to be, so why can’t the rest of the world seem to see?
so what if we want to apply bold eyeliner wings, or adorn our knuckles with jewelled rings?
and so what if we want to leave our faces bare? why do we have to be analyzed, scandalized, set up to compare?
let boys wear makeup, let girls wear cargo pants; let us wear skirts and t-shirts and go out at night to dance.
stop telling us that there’s something wrong with how we look; ‘cause we don’t all live by the rules of your book.