why do i feel so disgusting?
i forced myself to put makeup, didn’t i?
this is all i wanted
to feel pretty, to be pretty

i pull my hair into a bun,
ask myself, “does this suit me?”
how can i come so far and still not feel at home in me?
why does it feel like forcing?
i’ve done everything, haven’t i?

why won’t i let myself be happy?
the way i am.
the way ive grown.
sabotaging the progress
still feeling disgusted

loving myself feels like a chore
a never-ending task with no reward
for years now, this gloomy feeling running behind me, like a wolf trynna catch its prey

am i my worse enemy?
why don’t i want to see myself with joy?
why don’t i want to feel pretty?
isn’t this what everyone wants?

i stare into the mirror
covered eyebags,
pink blush painting me sweet,
mascara framing my small eyes
behind my glasses
it’s not too much, just enough

but where’s the feeling?
where’s the woman i’m supposed to be?
still a child deep down in heart
they tell me i’m mature for my age
but look at me now, feeling underage
lost, out of place

never will i fit in
never will i find her
the me i lost long ago,
without even knowing

so much disgust,
so much hate
i apologize to god
for this awful thing:
doubting his creation,
his art in me

shouldn’t i be ashamed?
shouldn’t i be grateful?
but my mind is crowded
a thousand thoughts
and here i am  
killing myself softly,
unaware of the sting