I didn’t use to think
I was imperfect
until I heard the people
whisper about the
awkwardness of my limbs
and largeness of my nose.

I used to think that I
was invincible and that
with my long arms, I could
catch shooting stars, and
that my green eyes were
laser beams or the light
at the end of
Daisy’s dock.
I used to think being
a skyscraper was better
than a sidewalk crack,
and that my orange hair
was the color of fire.

I wish you had never told me
that my feet were too big
and my eyes were too wrinkled.
I wish you had never pointed out
the pimple on my forehead or
the paleness of my skin.
Maybe I didn’t think I was
pretty, but the thing was,
I didn’t care.

And you with your crimson nails
and stained lips
you seduced me with the glossiness of
magazines
and corrupted my idea of beauty,
made me think that I was
never good enough.
Because of you I cower
behind makeup everyday
and wear sweatshirts so no one
will notice the gap between my ribs.
Because of you, I am shackled
to skinny jeans and designer
dresses fueled by a
constant hunger for more.
I consume but it only
feeds my insecurities.

I haven’t felt beautiful
in over three years.
Because of you, I’m afraid
to speak up, afraid to
talk to strangers,
to have another person tell me my
lips are too thin and chest
is too flat.
Because of you, the only
thing I can think each day
is
Am I pretty yet?
And the answer is always no.