To All The Boys Who Have Peter Pan Syndrome

Trigger warning: content is of the sexually sensitive nature

This is for the boys who have yet to become men. This is for the boys who build weak foundations upon misogyny and big dick energy, coasting through life on their carefully crafted and violently fragile egos. This is for the boys who keep going when we tell them ‘no.’ This is for the boys whose grip becomes tighter when we say, ‘That hurts, please stop.’ This is for the boys that will never know the first thing about treating a woman with respect, the boys who will never understand that a woman’s body is a stunning monument — a vessel to be worshiped and cherished, not used, abused, and discarded.

This is for the boy who lost interest in me because he didn’t approve of my God-given nipple hair, the body hair that I have every right to celebrate and leave untouched, but instead I feel so much shame for its presence. This is for the boy who left me with a traumatic experience and emotional wounds — the first boy I undressed for on the heels of my devastating breakup. I was a shell of a human being, and I pitifully believed you really liked me for me. This is for the boy who stopped speaking to me after one intimate encounter because he was not adequate enough in his manhood to honor the beauty that I hold in the curves and arches and edges of my body. Stupid boy, you definitely are not the marrying kind.

This is for the boy who gaslighted me when I experienced a pregnancy scare. This is for the boy who told me I was starving for his attention and told me to send him a photo of the pregnancy test to prove that I wasn’t lying. This is for the boy who left me with emotional lacerations from gaslighting me and making me feel so small and insignificant. To this boy, I confidently say: You can kindly go fuck yourself; I thank God everyday that I didn’t give birth to your child.

This is for the boy who was in town for work — professional hockey. The boy who invited me up to his hotel room, the boy who took photos and videos without my consent, demeaned me, and used my body as an object. This is for the boy who treated me like I was disposable and invisible the moment my taller, blonder, thinner friend showed up — you’re disgusting and egotistical ‘god-complex’ behavior is proof that you will never be a man.

This is for the boy in a long-term relationship that wanted to have his cake and eat it, too. The damaged boy who reeled me in with words as smooth as honey and manipulated my sweet, sensitive, and empathetic heart. This is for the boy who pulled me closer when I tried to leave, my senses numbed by the alcohol consumed during the evening’s festivities. To the boy who lured me in because he was so miserable in his personal life — you used me as a pawn, someone to stroke your fractured ego. For this reason, you will never, ever be a man.

This is for the boys who send unsolicited dick pics, the boys who have the audacity to put forth such disgusting behavior — your mother must be so proud of you. This is for the boys who grab our boobs and slap our asses, the boys who swap stories about their sexual encounters in the dressing room, objectifying women and picking apart their beautiful imperfections. To the boys who do not see our pretty minds, quick wit, and inner sunshine — you are trash incarnate.

To the only boy I’ve ever loved – you changed me forever. I am watermarked with emotional damage and trauma you left in your wake. Because of you, I have remained single almost exclusively since we parted ways. I have made valiant attempts to thrust my heart out into the spotlight once again, but to no avail. Your touch, your smile, your empty promises, they haunt me. I fear that your ghost will loom over me incessantly. You are never far from my thoughts, my soul, every intake of air. You cloud my judgment and flood my soul with memories; my therapist knows all about you. Congratulations, you destroyed me — yet I keep on breathing and feeling and living. I am rebuilding myself, brick by brick, leaving you out of my newly constructed mosaic. You wouldn’t recognize this new me.