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#idontwannabeyouanymore
Me, my body, my skin. It’s all wrong. The world told me to change my face, make sure nothing’s misplaced. ‘You should be perfect’ My eyes are an ugly color, my nose is too big, my forehead is too large. The world told me to look through special goggles, look like a model. ‘You should be perfect’ My waist is too large, my hips are too wide, I’m not skinny enough. The world told me to change the clothes on my body, be as beautiful as a poppy. ‘You should be perfect’ That dress makes you look fat, those clothes are too revealing, not that, it’s too boyish. The world told me to change my personality, think with less intellectuality. ‘You should be perfect’ My ambitions are too smart for a girl, my attitude is too kind, too trusting. The world told me to change the way I look through the mirror, see myself clearer. ‘You should be perfect’ My insecurities are unreasonable, I should be happy with myself. The world told me to have body confidence, have more self-tolerance. ‘You should be perfect’ You are beautiful, you shouldn’t have insecurities. All while telling me ‘how to be perfect’... It’s all wrong. Me, my body, my skin.
0
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 8:39 AM UTC
SmallvilleGirl
My Body
Me, my body, my skin. It’s all wrong. The world told me to change my face, make sure nothing’s misplaced. ‘You should be perfect’ My eyes are an ugly color, my nose is too big, my forehead is too large. The world told me to look through special goggles, look like a model. ‘You should be perfect’ My waist is too large, my hips are too wide, I’m not skinny enough. The world told me to change the clothes on my body, be as beautiful as a poppy. ‘You should be perfect’ That dress makes you look fat, those clothes are too revealing, not that, it’s too boyish. The world told me to change my personality, think with less intellectuality. ‘You should be perfect’ My ambitions are too smart for a girl, my attitude is too kind, too trusting. The world told me to change the way I look through the mirror, see myself clearer. ‘You should be perfect’ My insecurities are unreasonable, I should be happy with myself. The world told me to have body confidence, have more self-tolerance. ‘You should be perfect’ You are beautiful, you shouldn’t have insecurities. All while telling me ‘how to be perfect’... It’s all wrong. Me, my body, my skin.
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23
Don’t be that way. I say it to myself in the mirror, softly, like I’m handling something already cracked. I fall apart twice a day, not dramatically, just enough to notice. Just enough to keep going. I wish I could feel what I say before I say it, because my words always land after the damage is done. I call it honesty. It’s really just harm with better grammar. Show, never tell. So I show it. In the way my shoulders sink. In the way I stop expecting things. I know myself too well. I know which moods will pass and which ones move in. If tears could be bottled, mine wouldn’t be glamorous. No pools. No models. Just small, sealed containers hidden in drawers no one ever opens. I learned early that something about me is always wrong. If it’s not my clothes, it’s my body. If it’s not my body, it’s my silence. If it’s not my silence, it’s the fact that I noticed. If “I love you” were a promise, I don’t know if I’d keep it. Not because I don’t mean it, but because I disappear when things start to matter. I tell the mirror what she already knows: I leave myself every time it hurts. I don’t want to be you anymore. I don’t want to wake up already tired of being alive. My hands are cold. They always are. Like they’ve been holding something too long and forgot what warmth feels like. Losing feeling isn’t scary anymore. It’s familiar. It’s quiet. Was I made from a broken mold, or did I just learn how to break gently, without making a sound? I’m hurt in ways I can’t explain. I’ve made every mistake, and I carry them like proof that this is what I deserve. Only I know exactly how I fall apart— which thought to follow, which memory to touch, which sentence to repeat until it starts to feel true. If tears could be bottled, I wouldn’t sell them. I’d line them up on the floor and sit there, counting all the times I survived without ever feeling okay. So I look at myself and say nothing. Because sometimes silence is the only thing honest enough. I don’t want to be you. Not like this. I don’t want to be you. I don’t want to be you anymore.
0
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 4:52 PM UTC
finia
idontwannabeyouanymore as a poem
Don’t be that way. I say it to myself in the mirror, softly, like I’m handling something already cracked. I fall apart twice a day, not dramatically, just enough to notice. Just enough to keep going. I wish I could feel what I say before I say it, because my words always land after the damage is done. I call it honesty. It’s really just harm with better grammar. Show, never tell. So I show it. In the way my shoulders sink. In the way I stop expecting things. I know myself too well. I know which moods will pass and which ones move in. If tears could be bottled, mine wouldn’t be glamorous. No pools. No models. Just small, sealed containers hidden in drawers no one ever opens. I learned early that something about me is always wrong. If it’s not my clothes, it’s my body. If it’s not my body, it’s my silence. If it’s not my silence, it’s the fact that I noticed. If “I love you” were a promise, I don’t know if I’d keep it. Not because I don’t mean it, but because I disappear when things start to matter. I tell the mirror what she already knows: I leave myself every time it hurts. I don’t want to be you anymore. I don’t want to wake up already tired of being alive. My hands are cold. They always are. Like they’ve been holding something too long and forgot what warmth feels like. Losing feeling isn’t scary anymore. It’s familiar. It’s quiet. Was I made from a broken mold, or did I just learn how to break gently, without making a sound? I’m hurt in ways I can’t explain. I’ve made every mistake, and I carry them like proof that this is what I deserve. Only I know exactly how I fall apart— which thought to follow, which memory to touch, which sentence to repeat until it starts to feel true. If tears could be bottled, I wouldn’t sell them. I’d line them up on the floor and sit there, counting all the times I survived without ever feeling okay. So I look at myself and say nothing. Because sometimes silence is the only thing honest enough. I don’t want to be you. Not like this. I don’t want to be you. I don’t want to be you anymore.
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