WOMAN, DON’T HATE ME SO MUCH

For Those Who Look at Me Without Seeing Themselves

Woman, woman...  

Why do you look at me like that?  

With eyes of judgment, of ice, of thorns?  

Don’t hate me so much—  

It’s not me you see,  

but your own reflection,  

trapped in a maze of shattered mirrors. 

It’s not another woman you despise.  

It’s your own shadow—  

that quiet voice  whispering from the depths: 

“And me… who am I?” 

Your mind has been invaded,  

colonized by voices that aren’t yours.  

Cultural parasites  

feeding on your disconnection.  

But I don’t take it personally.  

I was domesticated too,  

reduced, reshaped  

to fit inside a cage shaped like a dress.  

The only difference—  

is that one day, I woke up. 

And if what you see in me  

makes you uncomfortable,  

don’t ask what I have—  

ask what you forgot. 

It’s easier to point the finger,  

I know.  

Looking inward—  

that’s for warriors.  

But every judgment you cast  

is a breadcrumb from the soul,  

a secret compass  

pointing you back to yourself. 

Call it a divine sign.  

A calling from above.  

An invitation to the alchemy  

of self-knowing.  

Because as long as you refuse to see yourself,  

you’ll keep seeing demons  

where there are only mirrors. 

Don’t think being beautiful is a blessing without a price.  

Every light casts a shadow.  

And every flower, before blooming,  

was once a seed buried in darkness.  

My beauty is not a trophy—  

it’s a cross  

that has often isolated me  

more than it has lifted me. 

Because almost no one truly sees me.  

They look… but they don’t see.  

They interpret.  

They project.  

They confuse me  

with their own unhealed wounds. 

That is the punishment of being visible—  

To be a screen for the invisible. 

But I don’t blame you, woman.   Blame the system that stole your soul.  

The monster that taught you  

to compete, to compare, to self-destruct.  

The same voice that created bulimia and anorexia  

moulded you, too.  

One day, the system disconnected you.  

It turned you into a robot. 

And now you live to please,  

to fit in,  

to look good while inside,  

you disappear. 

But there is a way out.  

A crack in the matrix.  

A secret door that was always there:  

Within. 

And until you walk through it,  

you’ll remain a puppet in a story

you didn’t write. 

Wake up, woman.  

You can.  

You are. 

And the day you finally see me—  

truly,  

without judgment,

without masks,

without fear—  

That day,  

you’ll see yourself, too.  

And I, from this side of the mirror,  

will embrace you. 

With love,  

Andy