My teddy bear told me I'm too ******* myself. He told me I worry too much.
He said that I'm pretty, I'm smart, I'm a good person with a kind heart.
He told me he loves me, he told me cares.
My teddy bear is my only real friend.
insecurity gets the best of me.
even when I don’t mean for it to.
a fear of becoming bothersome
with these afflictions I try to suppress.
I suffer restlessly with these sentiments,
earnestly craving a silence from the voices
that resound persistently in my head.
I struggle with the irons wrapped around me,
screaming routinely that it’s all a facade.
no matter how hard I try, how far I run,
the thoughts are always ahead of me.
always one step in front, beckoning me.
enticing me to welcome their embrace.
an embrace of sorrow, of lies and of pain.
a place of immeasurable uncertainty.
blanketed by a face of calm.
I just want to be loved.
found beautiful even when I hold no beauty.
caressed during my darkest days.
told everything will turn out okay.
because I just want to be loved.
some days I sit back
and wonder what it feels like to be small.
I dream of looking up to meet his gaze,
instead of him being the one to do so.
I crave the sensation of my head
burying into his chest,
feeling so secure.
But instead I settle for my chin resting
on his shoulder.
It pains me when they don’t look down to me,
when instead they’re meeting my eyes
or worse, looking up to me.
I don’t mind my tummy or my thighs that touch.
My round cheeks and hips don’t bother me.
It’s only my tall height that gets me down,
that makes me feel so self-conscious.
I’ve cried and cried and cried,
prayed and prayed and prayed,
that some day I’ll wake up in a new body.
A smaller body, one just four inches shorter.
So I can hear his heartbeat drum in my ear,
so I can look up to meet his gaze.
So that I can feel secure and not uncomfortable.
Maybe one day I can accept,
but for now I just want to feel small.
I’m 5’11 and hate every inch of it.
You obsess over your favorite celebrity,
their perfection starts to be all you see.
You want to be them, but know you never will,
and this is when it starts to go downhill.
You listen to the magazines and all the books,
then stare in your mirror and hate your looks.
— The End —