Her body shape is curvy as pumpkin
But media tells us it's beautiful.
Make-up she wears makes her face look like pulping
Hair that she has is just black straight poles
But no one's gonna tell you that because of the fake respect
Her personality is like a cube - icy and cold
She says her future's lookin' bright - what do we expect?
She needs some fashion advise, because her clothes don't look very nice.
When it comes to cakes, she takes more than one slice
Pictures we see on the net aren't always correct,
But we all know that everything she owns comes with a price.
All those haters she's gonna reject,
Because she has no self-respect left.
But that's the way she is - she's also a human being and we've to treat her with politeness and respect.

i hate so much hating myself
my skin
my arms
my waist
my legs
and all my body
'cause I'm a living, breathing creature
who can walk and talk and think and feel
my body works perfectly
and it has done so much
just to keep me alive.
my body loves me,
so why can't I love it back?

i hate how no matter how we're born
we are taught to despise
every bit of ourselves.

i hate how we learn to hate food
while so many are starving
for real reasons.

i hate this tortuous looks in the mirror
and this never ending cycle.

i hate how we try so hard to
make our outside look pretty
while we empty our insides.

i hate how our society
damages young girls and boy's brains.
i hate how they'll never feel whole
and proud of themselves.

i hate how socially acceptable it is
to do whatever it costs to lose weight
and i hate how we applaud
when people do.

i hate how we think it's okay
to comment in other people's appearance
as if it was meant for us
to define what they should look like.

i hate how hypocrites we are
talking about how wrong all this is
but reproducing this all the time.

i hate how no one actually cares
until it's too late.
and i hate how we're all broken,
pretending to be okay.

no dreams tonight
though the moon does shine bright
yet clouds make it look
a little bit like a crook

they shroud its pale shine
misty rags do entwine
even hide the whole disc

then again with a whisp
a distorted appearance
suggests perseverance
     of the heavenly body

we love its continuity
amid life‘s ambiguities
welcome the now shiny round face
with a heartfelt embrace

there was a time she felt cold
and weak
and lonely
and empty
and numb.
and she truly believed that
by being thin
and looking like she wanted to,
she'd be happy.
but that didn't happen.
in fact,
she just faded away,
disappeared inside of her clothes
and of herself.

lost the sparkle of her eyes
and the colour of her lips
and cheeks.

was it worth it?

though not a man in the mirror, per se
more a man behind it
with a penchant for schaudenfreude
smile yellow with sadism
the rot, the cavity
grinning from behind the glass
like some ******* Cheshire Cat
to my Tired Insecure Alice.

no two ways about it:
he is there and i am here
symmetrical
but for the man's barbed tongue
perforating mirror and
licking at the corners of my brain.

he sings an ode to a spindly leg
torso of crush'd cardboard box
predisposition for loquacity
(not a city you should visit)
and badly drawn countenance
scrawled across coffee-stained parchment.

so convincing is this
man behind the mirror
with his pejoratives
administered with utmost precision
surgically removed volition
saying things like:
"The City That Never Sleeps
would cower at the indelible image
that is the hulking bags under your eyes."

i have nicknamed him "Conscience"
in the hope of wrestling back control.

If I was looking for beauty
I wouldn't look in the mirror.
If I wanted to see a pretty perfect face
I'd look at some cousin's old dolls.

If I was looking for perfection,
A face unspoiled and clean
There would be a thousand places I could look
But I will never look at myself

If I'm looking in the mirror,
I'm looking at an injury
Or a stain,
Or a wound
I never see anything remotely beautiful in the mirror
Not unless someone's standing next to me
And it's funny,
People have called me beautiful before
Only for me to snort so loudly
For me to laugh in genuine confusion
And sarcastically agree.
I don't call myself modest
I'm simply asking for honesty
I've never cared about
What my face looks like
How ugly I am
or how pretty I'm not
Surely, there's something more important
To compliment someone with
All a face is
Is a way to recognise a friend
All a body is
Is how to describe the guests to expect

The only disadvantage to not caring
Is that I doubt I'd care
If something were truly wrong.

When I was 7, I knew exactly what Love looked like.

I knew Love had blond hair, blue eyes
cute freckles and a crooked smile.

Love was the fastest boy at recess.
He would push me on the swing set so that my feet flew
and touched the cotton wool clouds.
He shared his snacks with me because
well, 7 year olds are gentlemen like that and
I knew that we were meant to be.

Until we weren’t.

Because 7 year olds grow
and change
and from one day to the next
they are no longer the same.

Love now had brown hair, and brown eyes
so dark and rich I melted into them
like chocolate between fingertips on a warm summer day.
We read books together
like the true intellectual 7 year olds we were
and bonded over
stories about cats in hats?
It wasn’t the world’s most groundbreaking love story
but it was our love story
and that was good enough for our little hearts.

But that love faded away too.

I, in turn, grew and changed
and moved away.
I juggled languages with sports
and friendships and hell
the struggles of being a teenage girl
!
that I didn’t even stop to think about
where Love had gone.
I figured I would see him in the hallway
at some point
maybe
but he was definitely around somewhere!
We were probably just taking different classes
and had slightly different interests…
But I knew I’d run into him eventually!

It took me 4 years to come across Love again.
I hardly recognised him at first—
he had the same dark eyes, but this time his
skin was the colour of the coffee my dad drinks every morning.
His jawline was sharper than any knife in my kitchen
and his cheekbones were higher up on his face.
His dark eyebrows grew wildly across his forehead
but his grin was unmistakable.

Love had grown at least a foot since the last time I’d seen him.
He was an athlete, except instead of running at recess
he now ran sprints for the athletics team.
Love’s love for books hadn’t changed either
but he’d replaced the stories of hungry caterpillars
for novels, and plays, and poetry.

It was when Love made the same joke
and I heard him laugh the same laugh
that I realised Love didn’t come in a fixed package.
Love was not something you ordered online
that came delivered with a pretty ribbon at your doorstep
a dress you could try on and send back if the fit wasn’t right.
Love doesn’t have
a religion
a nationality
a sexuality.

Love is someone
who listens when you tell them about your day
even on the worst of days
not necessarily to give you advice
or because what you have to say is particularly exciting
but just because they want to know.

Love is someone
who you can talk to at any time of the day
the person at the other end of the phone at 3AM
when you need to cry because everything is wrong
but also the person who will take you to the park at on a Sunday afternoon
when the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping
and your worries
are wrapped in a soap bubble
and gone with a gust of wind.

Love always thinks you look beautiful.
Love likes your hair both up and down
thinks you look great in that bikini
that your makeup looks good today
but that you could also do without it.
Love thinks you’re prettiest when you’re smiling
but that’s not to say you’re not pretty when you cry.

Love is not always the person you would expect.
But do not judge Love for the body it comes in.
Judge Love for their taste in socks
and Disney movies
and candy bars
and sports teams.
For their opinions on politics
and peanut butter
the importance of family
and the new Snapchat update.

These little quirks which define Love
are what will decide whether you are meant to be.
NOT the body you encounter them in.

I've just gone past my best before,
but I'm still before my sell by;
I may well suit a daring soul
who'll give a Russet a try.

I'm not as smooth my brothers
and not easy to describe,
but if you like it warm and spiced
I may be just your type.

You may detect the odd small wart,
but please - don't be put off;
you'll be surprised how good I look
after a thorough wash.

So take a chance, take me home
and take a slice with cheese;
you'll find from the taste that flows
I'm far more than what you see.