I've spent my teenage years disliking myself.
There's this space in my chest where my heart should be, but all I feel is the ghosts of my past / present / future clawing away  at my fragile bones
Begging for an escape.

When people ask me if I'm okay, I've adopted the occupation of ballerina
rehearsing and teaching the muscles
of my face to stay
poised and pretty
my lips bent upward at 45 degrees.

If the self help books say to love your body like a temple,
then why does mine feel like it's in ruins?
I am a deity of disgust,
a demigod of self loathing,
the omniscient voice of my own oppression.

If other people can be happy for me,
then why the hell can't I just be happy
for myself?