My body is a temple I'm not used to sharing.
Don't ask to see it, it's putrid.
It's not a diamond.
Don't call me a princess or a queen because it's not what
you'll see when you see the naked version of me.
I have the marks from being happy and gaining weight.
Then losing everything, including the pounds
I gained loving her.
The scars from running and falling as a kid.
The scars from hating myself as a teenager.
The fat I still haven't lost from loving her.
Seems I'm only losing my muscle.
Losing my strength.
I have the big arms no one cares for.
My thighs love each other so much they never go a second
without touching.
And cellulite occurs like a migraine up and down them.
My stomach isn't as flat as the models are.
I have that pouch of now forbidden food.
You can't always see my collar bones
and my double chin appears when I lay down.
The bags swarm beneath my eyes like mosquitoes, as if my makeup was bug repellent.
My back has acne.
My chest isn't the prettiest. My ***** don't fall
the way that is cute and perky.
My fingers are short and they don't look good unless my nails are done and long.
My body isn't like anything you'd see in the magazines.
That shouldn't be an issue,
but I can't see anyone adoring it.