I am self-conscious about my body
There is something about strangers on the street
Looking me down, chasing me down, asking for my number before asking for my name
That I have never liked a little bit
Not even at all

It makes me more self-conscious than I already am
I don't have a perfect body
I pick at the skin on my thumbs and they're permanently scarred and that makes holding hands as difficult as finding my heart under the trees I planted in my liver to shield it from the sun of my lover because I couldn't bear the thought that I wasn't as beautiful as him

I have a small chest
I heard once
That the first thing men notice about a woman is her eyes, and the first thing women notice about men is that they are a bunch of liars
So these strangers must notice that
And it gives me anxiety to wonder why they would still have an interest

There is nothing striking, beautiful, or breath-taking about me
Until I speak (I think)
My personality makes up for everything else
At least, I try to make it so
But you don't know me

So why are you chasing a short, ordinary, nobody across the street
What am I to you?
What do you see in me?