i have built so much since my days of darkness
i have struggled through the stench of self-pity
i wash myself clean
but it's never quite thorough enough
to get between pressure-induced cracks hidden beneath inadequacies.
i conceal my face, my body, my layers of doubt
but ooh, i never hide my scarred arms anymore.
let my mutilated vitality leak through; i am in fact alive after drowning
i survived the wreckage; i am no longer in danger of ceased breathing.
still, it's so much easier to retreat
than to compare myself
the way he compared me to those beauties
those forms of goddesses; their thighs were not fat or pore-stricken
their bodies softly curved, and eyelashes gracefully aligned
their femininity not perfect, but somehow more substantial than mine
and on days like these i am reminded
of everything i've tried so hard not to be:
a self-reprimanding figure of ugliness,
a gluttonous result of low self-esteem.
well, fuck that.
i am not a marble sculpture,
my skin is my own.
i will take my fill of self-love and happiness
even if i have to take it alone.