My Body

My body is the fact I twist to bury myself

beneath inches of faked confidence and beauty,

for there is a war being fought on the plains

of my stomach and the valleys and hills of my thighs.

My mind facilitates this battle of parts and all of these lies.

Convince me, I scream to the girl in the mirror,

who’s stretching her legs and tightening her stomach.

Convince me that beauty sleeps deep in my bones

that all of my features are sitting on thrones

convince me that the only beauty that matters is my soul’s.

I won’t believe you, but try.






I’m so tired of tugging uncomfortably at my skin,

like an itchy wool sweater, it has never felt right.

I tug at the seams, hoping to bring some change.

Hoping that the threads will sew themselves into

something more beautiful than the shape they take now,

but they never do.

Instead the threads unravel

they spill around me in a pile of discarded self loathing.