some days i wish i smoked less & laughed more, that my hair was longer & caught sunlight in its dull strands, my smile less irreparably crooked, my body softer & sweeter to sink into.  that fictional characters whose stories end in tragedy didn’t bring me to tears.  that i was something easier to love.  
these days, i clutch at my skin with virulent self-hatred & try to be different.  these days, i am not much of anything at all.  these days, i am not worth loving.
but other days, i imagine dying my hair a ridiculous color & piercing my bottom lip, wearing a lot of grungy clothes & getting ****** out of my mind every morning.  i think of asking for crayons & a children’s menu when you take me somewhere expensive for dinner to see if i embarrass you.  of making love to you in front of a big-picture window & not caring who might see.
honestly, i don’t care if you disapprove of me.  maybe i don’t love myself enough, but i have at least enough self-respect to never change for your benefit.
i don’t care if you think i’m unattractive or childish.  i don’t intend to live long enough for looks or acting my age to matter much.  someday, you’ll find a girl who is perfectly pretty, who takes good care of her body, who doesn’t always make you think so much.
me, i like myself a challenge.  all sharp angles & rough edges.  unsure of whether or not you’ll stick around to find out what lies beneath the exterior.  me, i’m i & that is enough.  for now.