“There she goes,” they say and it’s true there I am.
5 feet 3 inches tall, being who I want to because I can.
“Why does she dress like that?” Does it matter what I wear?
As far as I’m concerned I’m awesome so I actually don’t care.
“Wow she’s kind of fat. That’s what we should call her.”
I still strut my stuff down the hallways,
Not concerned if my stomach should be a little smaller.
“Her hair is two colors, she thinks she’s ‘all that’.”
I smile because what they said are actually both facts.
They tell me I’m ugly,
And then I laugh because I don’t see it.
They throw a label at me,
And then accuse me of trying to be it.
Labels don’t fit me; never have because of my size.
They leave no room for my confidence,
No room for my creativity,
And definitely no room for my thighs.