I waged war on myself.
Armed with bullets of revulsion,
a bow of repugnance, and an avidity to match the beauty standards.
I bedeviled my melanin with “not light enough.”
I hacked away at my adiposity, brandishing swords of “not skinny enough.”
“Why are you destroying me?” my nine-year-old body cried.
“Because you don’t look like the models!” I howled in reply.
The pulse of my morals yearned to reassure me with “That’s photoshop. That isn’t even real!” but my army of self-hate burned, besieged them.
I had incarcerated my morals,
Crippled my self-love,
Slaughtered my soul,
and blindly rampaged forth along the path of self-destruction.
I was ravaged, looted of self-love by phantasmagoric, unattainable beauty standards.
When I trudged to decay myself in the soil of animosity.
the dirt coiled away, and cried,
“You have already rotted yourself.
There is nothing for me to do anymore.”