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Everything you own is covered in blood.
     They arrive on moments composed of crumpled paper, tired and degraded by the heat and pressure of God's palm, left in Her pocket too long. ******* and apathetic inaction meet in the center of the sheet where your pelvis, your s e x rests while you sleep and lie and lie and sleep and sleep and lie. A Rorschach blot card where you see the death of dignity. Mother, Roommate, and Tinder Dates that you never bring home see everything that they had hoped you weren't.

     Cochina. Pig, ******* pig.

     And I can't read that last verse out loud. That tells you everything you need to know.

Everything you own is covered in blood.
     You bleed when you don't feel enough, or when what you feel isn't what you ought to feel--silly ******* scholarship with the brains and the championed cheek bones (if you just lost the weight, she says to herself sometimes, and her friends don't agree, but there is a deafening lack of disagreement that takes the room).

     Bold girl who never made suicide jokes because she was so so so good at this game called self love until she wasn't. Until she ran out of bad ***** juice. Until she felt the weight of it, the world.

     And so you choose to feel the bite of an exacto knife.

Reliable, that.
Pleasurable, that.
Guilty, guilty pleasure.
Shameful pleasure.

     We were supposed to be grown up, glowed up. Above this.

                                                  **** this.

     When did it become so hard to love yourself?
TW for Self Harm. It was a bad evening. Old temptations came for me
Bella-Lee Sep 10
I love how your hair cascades down from your head,
How the brown contrasts your pale skin.
I love how your eye are the window to my soul,
How it shows the pain and scars through its crevaces.
I love how your clothes hang off you like bags,
How you could wear anything else but you don't.
It's taken me years to start loving myself again,
Just a start but it's something.
I love how I'm not scared to say it anymore,
I love myself.
What do you guys love about yourselves??
Maddie Sep 6
How the hell could you hate being
In your own skin
When you’re so
So
Beautiful

What’s image anyway
When all I imagine
Is how gorgeous you are
Adrienne Sep 6
what if we changed the definition of beauty
to something actually beautiful
something more than your typical
blue eyes, blonde hair mold
what if the definition of 'beautiful'
meant every shape, size, abnd skin tone
what if every girl was beautiful too?
what if, in advertising,
we showed more diversity, pody positivity,
so that every girl loved her looks?
what if we changed the rules,
stopped going by the books,
and decided for ourselves what beauty is?
what if we changed it
to something actually beautiful
something more than your typical
blue-eyed, blonde-haired mold?
what if 'beautiful' meant
every size, shape, and skin tone
what if we decided for ourselves what beauty is?
what if, instead of body-shaming each other,
we would teach one another the value of our bodies
that you are beautiful too?
eva-mae Aug 25
my hair is too short
too short to tie up
too long to be free
too tangled to love

my face is too sad
too sad to be bright
too red to be snow
too pale to be light

my hands are too weak
too weak to point out
too small to hold
too tired to scout

My skin is too soft
Too soft to be smooth
Too rough to be felt
Too broken to move
too much or not enough?
MeaningfulMee Aug 25
Body.
I say, I have a voice,
they say no, you have teeth,
that aren't white,
enough.

I say, I have strength,
they say no, you have an ***,
that is not big, enough.
I say, I have a point of view,
they say no, you have eyes,
that aren't bright,
enough.

I say I have a mind,
they say no, you have hair,
that is not shiny,
enough.

I say I have power,
they say no, you have tighs,
that aren't small,
enough.

I say I am a soul,
they say no, you are,
Just,
A,
Body.

And I begin to believe,
Them.
Just a short poem I wrote I hope you enjoyed reading it.
I would really appreciate it if you could let me know what you thought about it.
Bella-Lee Aug 18
Do I get seen by this world around me,
Or am I invisible to every person.
Only for boys to examine my frail body,
Just like another fish within the ocean.
Am I invisible to everyone around me,
For every one around to flaunt.
My body is invisible for all to see,
And this world it will not haunt.
For you will only find the reminiscences,
Of my despair and destruction of my mind.
Something that is unknown to science,
But somewhere I hope I'm still here to find.
Sorry for another poem again... It is really my only release of emotional distress.
Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.

A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an ******-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.

And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.

A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Though the content of this poem was developed within the dark confines of my mind, it was in part inspired by, i_weigh, Sam Smith, and Marie Southard Ospina. As someone with rather extreme, played-a-small-part-in-my-four-suicide-attempts level of body image issues, I'm hoping I can go from the shameful young man to the validated old man by the time I'm dead… I mean, not the young stud doing pullups, I can't do those. I've done an 1000lb leg press, but pullups? You crazy?! But enjoying that dessert wine and a book? That I can dig.
highly recommended, highly nutritional, highly idealized, highly regarded, highly aware that my skin should be as tender as Jesus, a concoction of milkweed and baby's breathe, highly worthy of a man, high volume, high capacity, highly considering the recipes from God's kitchen, the smell of ***** and peppermint, highly bronzed and beautifully sick.
Laura Jul 28
I'd love to eat
I don't know why
I struggle
To put food
In my belly
I don't know why
I cringe
Just writing the word:
Belly
That's a fat word
And I want
to be skinny
I shouldn't have
a belly
Full of stretch marks
that hangs
just a little bit
I shouldn't
Have to lift
it up
or lean forward
in order to see
My feet
Whoever gave me
this belly
made a mistake
a huge mistake
because I never
never ever asked
for one

I never
never ever asked
to be fat
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