The content argues that society, particularly men, often dismisses or trivializes the emotional experiences of young women, telling them to "smile" without understanding their underlying struggles or granting them agency over their own feelings.
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People don't give girls enough credit.
I'm in the ninth grade now and the last
time I studied a uniquely female
narrative was in sixth grade. That might
not seem like a lot, three years, but it
is. Difference between 12 and 15,
between girl and we're reading together
mockingb bird now. And I was walking
home one day thinking about how Dill's
hair was described as duck fluff or how
Scout viewed reading as breathing or
what I'd helped my mom make for dinner
when I guess I was frowning a little
deep in thought. Um someone a man, a
grown man told me to smile,
sweetheart. Strange, right? Telling some
stranger to look happy. You know, it
only takes one more muscle than smiling
to punch someone in the teeth. Blood's
better than tears anyway. Action over
thought. Thoughts left lingering,
wriggling through vital veins and
organs. When you try to fight something
you know is bigger than you. The cudgel
which has bludgeoning countless before.
Because if there is no struggle, then
you lose the cold and broken.
Hallelujah. Well, at least you fought
back. Don't tell sad girls to smile.
Don't tell sad girls to smile because
she might be the type who gets cut by
hipbones. Don't tell sad girls to smile
because she might still be trying to
scrub someone else's sin from her skin.
Hot water, holy water, it all flows
under the same bridge eventually and the
dead can only feel cold. So if she can
feel the burning water, then maybe,
maybe don't tell sad girls to smile
because she does it for herself or
someone she feels comfortable with, not
some slack jawed fisheyed nice guy
doesn't find a frown appealing. She
might have a good reason to be sad. So
don't you tell me to smile. Is not your
mouth. It is not yours to kiss, to
consume, to find comfort in. When the
windows rattle in a storm, or your heart
rattles in your rib cage like seeds in
the dry earth, unable to grow without a
little water and sunshine and
tenderness. And if you really want a sad
girl to smile, then you hold her until
you're drenched in perfume from the
gardens you planted in her heart. So
that every time her wounds reopen, she
bleeds bouquets. But I'm not yours to
hold. And if you keep walking around
telling sad girls to smile, no one will
ever want to be. And if you come any
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