Can we blame anyone for our insecurities
and low self-esteems?
Are they self-inflicted, or a result of having our true selves continuously rejected?
Having to constantly alter yourself to fit a societal model that is appreciated and accepted.

Are we projecting too much hurt?
To the point there is no more good to feel within and about our own selves?
Are we wallowing in sadness and imperfections,
that we feel unable to find joy in anything?

Who am I supposed to blame -
blame for no longer wanting to go outside because I feel filthy inside when people gaze at me?
Their stares look more like laughter -
laughter at the insecurities weighing heavy and breaking my posture.

I am not perfect, but I am not flawed.
The world may have given up on loving me;
loving me for my uniqueness and authenticity,
but I will never overcome my brokenness if I give up on loving myself -
and for that love to suffice;
but concede to the societal standard:
I am not acceptable, or wanted.

November 17, 2017

Red dry patches there
Red dry patches here
Red dry patches everywhere
Irritating, itchy , and ugly
“Put some lotion and everything will be fine. It will be gone and it won’t be fugly”
They said
If only it was that easy as a book I just read
But no.
I always keep myself on the low
You see, sometimes these patches bleed
And I cry, because it hurts and wish it will heal at such greater speed
I cry because when the water cleanses my body, it sometimes burns
I wish we could take turns
So you would understand
Why I can’t simply put myself with such confidence within myself, as I seem like a lost strand
Why my insecurities are high off the roof
How I want my body to disappear, like “****”
How I’ll never have decent skin until many months from now
From time to time admiring other people’s fair skin and I say “wow”
I wish I had normal skin
So I wouldn’t have to be dry and flaky, I would’ve had some sort of win
I wish I could be able to wear clothes that reveal some of my beauty from my body
But being snapped in reality, it’ll just disturb everybody
So I shall wait
And just deal with everything as it is my fate

silent honesty;
it’s when you’re standing on the grass and you tell the rose she’s a beauty
well, isn’t she?
you feel it’s a duty
to only verbalize the nicest things out of all you’re thinking
but if you think their words cut like knives
then your silence stings like bees

i think i'm fat.
i say "think" because
everyone tells me
i'm not
when i bring it up
maybe i'm not
"fat",
per se,
but i'm not thin,
nor am i healthy.
i gorge myself
on carbs and chocolate,
caffeinating to the point of
insomnia,
ignoring exercise
every chance i get.
there are other words for me,
somewhat flattering words-
chubby,
curvy,
squishy,
huggable.
i know someone
who would add words like
"cute" and "pretty" and "beautiful"
to that list.
i don't believe her.
i love her and care about her
more than she knows,
but i don't believe her.
i find no beauty in fat,
no cuteness in stretch marks.
i find only
ugliness
and self-hatred.
i've been trying to change that,
for both her
and myself.
i know how horrible it feels
to look in the mirror
and hate what i see,
to skip meals
and squirm from the discomfort
of my hunger
but bear it
and not take a bite
for fear of more stretch marks
and added pounds.
i might change that,
eventually-
eat a little healthier,
embrace my curves and squishiness,
but for now,
it's who i am.
i guess,
for now,
it's just
me.

For some I am
Too much
For others
Not enough

But all that matters
Is that for me
I am
the perfect fit