Slim waist.
Skinny arms.
Thigh-gap legs.

“Perfect bodies,” we call them.
“Beautiful” and
“Real.”
But there is nothing real in plasticity,
Nothing beautiful in being ashamed
Of stretchmarks
And imperfections.

Self-hate is not beautiful.

Self-hate is a bunch of weeds,
Growing on the outskirts of our minds,
Slowly inching their way
Into the flowerbeds of our lives,
Killing everything in their path
And leaving a trail of burnt nothingness.

Self-hate is the wandered gone astray,
The lost hiker desperate for a path
To lead him back.
It is panic and despair;
The road for self-destruction.

Self-hate is an ignored cry for help,
A stumble into a dead-end street.
It is staring into a dark void—
Only to be stared back by your own tormented eyes.

Self-hate is not beautiful.
It is your soul begging to be saved
By your own self.