I could never understand,
comprehend,
why all the dolls I had
when I was little,
were so pretty.

they stared at me,
through glassy eyes,
eyes with the most
dazzling pigments.

their tiny dresses,
sewn by a few threads
and idealistic whims,
fit their skinny bodies perfectly,
exposing a carefully crafted figure.

their painted lips curled up,
into an everlasting smile,
and they seemed to mouth
'what is fat? what is imperfection?'

I also could never understand,
why all the girls wanted to be,
not just like the dolls,
but be a manifestation of those dolls.

do they want
to not have a single thought in their heads,
except the desire for perfection and admiration,
for people to think that they're beautiful?

do they want
to blink behind vacant eyes,
with lashes curled?

do they want,
to have constantly worry,
about having a fold of fat
on their skin?

there is a reason,
why dolls are unmoving.
they have to be controlled,
by a superior force,
guiding their actions.

is that who you want to be?

I can assure you, my friend,
I may not be a beauty queen,
and I may have some fat to my name,
but I am not a doll.

And I am **** proud.