You have not seen me until you have seen me as I see myself
You have not seen me until you see me as I trace my hand over the stretch marks that climb the sides of my torso like veins that squeeze me
You have not seen me until you see me as my eyes become dimmer as I look at the discoloration of my sides
You have not seen me until you see every scar, bruise, and scratch that plagues my thighs and arms
You have not seen me until you have watched my body give in and breakdown because the image I see staring back at myself is one of broken glass, broken dreams, broken memories

You have not seen me until you understand that I am not a towering temple with battle scars and broken beauty marks

I am a shell of lost spirit and soul
I am a body, torn apart apart by hatred and rotten words

You have not seen me

Your body is a temple.
My body is a dumpster.
I'd never feed it meat,
but chemicals taste as simple as celery.
I'd promote myself for being okay,
but nothing is ever okay anymore.

you're beautiful
to you perhaps,
but what do you matter to me?
I eat to survive,
and I starve to live a happier life.

It'll never be enough.
But that's on me,
just like all the cereal I just spilled.

I think you're cool I think you're sweet
I'll kiss you from your stretchmarks to your feet
Don't close your eyes leave on the light
I want to see you in all your might
So you've got rolls and thighs for days
But sweetie that's the thing that drives me crazy
See you've got everything I don't have
And I'm proud to call you my man
You're the big to my small, the squish to my lean
I'm not calling you chubby to be mean
Just put your hands on me and look me in the eye
I'm going to make you love yourself tonight

I am not comfortable in my own skin, I am not comfortable looking at my own body.
I hate that my body is often looked on by others, it makes me feel *****. But I love being touched. I love kissing.
I hate when they say my name, though. It sounds like a bad word. Something that doesn't fit. But I love my name. I love how it sounds.
I hate hearing from a mans mouth, it comes out tainted. I hate feeling squeamish when anyone compliments my body. I hate that I immediately want to cut into my skin when someone tells me I'm beautiful, or that they love my curves.

like a star
the girl shines
plastic packaging removed
double-a batteries inserted
and with a flick of a switch

she lights up
beaming twinkling
amidst a galaxy of stars
that look just like her
that smile just like her
that behave just like her

she is held together by her own gravity
set forever to whirl and twirl and swirl
about her own little axis

dancing prancing
for the sentinels
for the solar systems
for the universe

like a star
the girl dies
inwards not out
crumbling crumpling
from the weight of empty mascara bottles lipstick tubes-face paint
to the weightlessness of her own self

A painted image
False happiness as people tell me I'm amazing
And a pre-written set of lines to keep me going

I wish I had their humility
That I didn't rethink myself daily
That my mind didn't relapse into hate

I don't look in the mirror because I'm afraid of what I'll see
I don't stare closely at my body or I'll point out my flaws
And I force my mind to call me beautiful until I believe it again

"I wish I had your confidence"
Do you wish you had such hard relapses of hate
And to doubt your own thoughts until you wish you were so much different

I lumber sluggishly,
dragging the weight of my body.
Every pound is tethered to me,
I can’t escape the heaviness.

I am stuffed into clothes,
encased in figure-hugging fabric
that looks better on the hanger
than my rounded, fleshy torso.

The scale is an unlucky lottery ticket
displaying a number
that I will carry around
shamefully like a scarlet letter.

I count calories like beads on a rosary,
making sure I shrink to conformity
critical of every extra curve
because to love my size is a societal sin.

Airbrushed beauty queens
and slender starlets
wear their size 0 like a badge of honor
in the battlefront of glossy magazine covers.

I’m crushed with the weight of the world I inhabit
a place that teaches girls to be self-conscious
of each pound that sticks to their body
instead of teaching them to be confident in their own skin.

I’m tired of micromanaging each nutrient that touches my lips,
to achieve a slender frame that resists my big-***** body
self love is not a one-size-fits-all
and I will radically adore every ounce that is tethered to me.

I hate my body.
I am a walking embodiment of disappointment.
I pick at my face and my hair.
The girl beside me is beautiful
And she hates her body.
She is very meticulous when it comes to her image
but when she stops and looks in the mirror
She is disgusted by what she sees.
Why does she hate her perfect body?
her peers scrutinize her appearance daily
and tell her she is not beautiful.
Her friends hate their bodies too,
for reasons just the same.
It's a vicious cycle that I wish to break.
I will learn to love my body some day
but for now,
I do not like my body.
at least that's what my friends want me to think.

What have I become or
Maybe what have I always been
That seems to be the thought
That encircles the depression
That shoves my face
To the hidden mirror
And holds my cheeks
Turned down and
Keeps my eyes focused
On the ***** stained shirt
And the torn jeans
That seem to fit the distorted
Image that surely isn't me.
There is no answer for
The ones from whom
I have turned away
And there is no seeking
For the answer in the horizon
And there is no sound
From the helpers who
Speak only as they are
Pulling your ears to
Their black hole of needs.