"stretchmarks" poems
Fall in love with yourself.
Learn how to be infatuated
with the veins in your hands
and the stretchmarks on your tummy.
Make your own heart race
as you whisper those
three words,
eight letters
to yourself
over and over again.
*I love you.
I love you.
I love you.*
And mean it.
If you can learn how to
profess your undying love
to the naked, scared figure
in the mirror,
you can learn how to
daydream about a future
where you
and that person
are finally happy.
If you can give
a piece of your heart
to that stranger on the bus,
why can't you give everything
back to yourself?
You,
who picked your broken self up
after dropping to your knees
one too many times.
You,
who dragged your ***
to the toilet
after drinking the night away
(even though you promised
that you wouldn't do it again).
You,
who wasn't always there,
but tried to make it up to yourself
by covering your wounds
with purple plasters
and starlight.
Because when people
turn out their pockets
with no spare love
to hand to you,
you will stuff your hands into yours
and give them some of your own
without ever running out of supply.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
*-he called me his tiger;
but all i see is a little girl
whose body outgrew her-*
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
You kissed my stretchmarks one by one
I squirmed until you were done
You traced my appendix scar
I wanted to run, far
You told me I was gorgeous
I felt nauseous
I’m too damaged too believe
compliments I can’t receive
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
Dear legs...
I'm sorry how i've alwYs complained about you not being long or straight enough.
Thank you for still carrying me even though i've hated you with such a passion.
Dear arms
I also wanna tell you sorry, for punching you when i got mad, and also for complain about you being too floppy.
Thank you for still helping me, do everything and for just being there, life would be a lot harder without you.
Dear ****
I'm sorry for all the times i've said you were ugly, you not being round, small or smooth enough.
Thank you for still going along and let me sit on you when i've been tired.
Dear stomach
Sorry for pinching and hitting you whever i was hungr, and sorry for never liking you beacuse you were floppy but i know it's just skin
And that's how you're suppossed to look.
Thank you for telling me when i'm hungry and keeping in all the food i eat, you work like a machine and that must be hard to do!
dear *****
Sorry for always thinking you were too small, i regret everything i've said you've grown nice and round, i'm sorry for complaining so tou had to hurry so much you got stretchmarks
Thank you, for grabbing so much attention, that id sort of funny.
Dear hips
I'm dorry for punching you and complaining avput you being too wide.
Thank you for giving me the hourglassshape every girl long for.
dear skin
I have so much to be sorry for..
I'm sorry for cutting you, and bruising you and burning you, i' so very sorry i have ruined you this much, i'm sorry for letting my emotions out on you, i have made you scarred and i'm sorry about that. Im sorry for also complaining how you were never clean enough
But thank you! For sticking along and holding my body together you're awesome
Dear face
I'm sorry for never liking you and being sad about my eyes not being deep blue or my nose not perfect
Though i thank you for
Letting my friends know who i am
Dear hair
I'm sorry i put you through a lot of heat and dying and all that but hey you're still on my head i bet i would look weird bald so thank you!
Dear body!
Last but not least
I wanna thank you for being so strong and beautifull i wanna thank you for holding on even though i put you through this much
dear body... I'm sorry.. Thank you
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
My bottom blossoms
When I sit atop the
Bed and fine red lines
Run down its sides.
If this is the marking
Of a budding woman,
Then let me proudly
Display my vines.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
I.
I'm a growing polliwog,
not a butterfly--
pickled legs hang off of my fish body
and gills close off so rapidly.
A minute ago I could caress the water
and make oxygen bubble in my throat. Now
beating,
pulsing
lungs intrude
like pink bubble gum ready to pop.
What a sadistic word,
oxygen.
II.
After a little nap in a sleeping bag
butterflies are monarchs,
stained glass fluttering perfection,
symbols of luck,
symbols of
beauty,
Their wired bodies are scribbled together
like starving supermodels.
III.
And my seams are
!slowly!
pinching themselves open,
a la Frankenstein.
I want to think these body parts are mine:
A tentative nose,
very green pointillism eyes
with lashes like brittle grass or bent nails,
These white playdough thighs,
and stretchmarks like remnants of lace
chewed up by my insane canine.
Pink.
Dainty and tangled on my legs,
I think they look like jet-streams lit by sunset.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
I am cutting all of my shirts this summer
to change each seam into a headband,
one that matches my stretchmarks –
twenty-two, in fact,
that are in perfect style for anyone to see.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
Don’t talk to me, I’m not in the mood
I’m tired, I feel sick, I have gone off my food
I have got heart burn, piles and I’ve got a sore back
Don’t argue with me, I won’t cut you any slack
I have got big, black bags, under my eyes
I look like I have eaten to many pies
I have stretchmarks, I look like a frigging map
The baby kicks me in the ribs when I'm trying to take a nap
I'm forever hot, I forever sweat
My ******* leak, my tops always wet
When I walk, I puff and I pant
I can’t wait to have this baby, I hate being Pregnant
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 9:14 AM UTC
I want to see you in the daylight
Morning blues creeps onto your birthmarks
Eyes are so very bright
Your hair
Wrists
You.
You own yourself now
This is very important
Please love yourself
Please please please
Listen to me before my voice turns into an insane wild howl
Hitting the highest notes, disappears and I gasp for breath please listen
You are your very own
This is pretty much all you have.
Your belongings consist of two ardent eyes, stretchmarks,
Arms, legs issued by a pair each.
Your mind
Whatever is your every thought
Whatever you believe is true, simply
Because you believe it.
It’s all yours, this is you.
It’s all up to you.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
So, you're sitting in a doctors room, wondering why you can't stop crying,
When he enters saying"It's good news" a result from all that trying.
In a haze you drive to tell your mum, she knows from the silly grin,
And there and then, you buckle up, this journey is about to begin.
So, vomiting and painful ******* and screaming at your husband,
Is part and parcel to this little nightmare, nature calls pregnant.
Oh, don't forget the stretchmarks, and the piles that grow like grapes,
And mood swings, constipation, and eating sticky tape?!,
And now you're halfway through your quest, you look so beautiful,
Your hair and skin look radient, maintaining health is dutiful,
Then little kicks bring on the tears as both of you embrace,
And watching as the tv screen shows up a tiny face.
As weeks turn into months, you begin the preparation,
With practise runs for when its time to get to the nurses station.
Your feet have disappeared from sight, no need for the nail clippers,
And lack of sympathy from him, as your feet look like fluffy slippers.
The lack of room within your womb means little or no sleep,
The inability to get up, so give in, stay in the seat,
So here we go, your waters break, and hubby thinks you've peed,
You tell him"Get the car, or i will squash you like a seed!".
The pleas for pain relief and stupid questions from the nurses,
You try to answer politely, between the frequent curses,
The final throes are happening, you're screaming like a pig,
And out she comes, the miracle, "Oh look, isn't she big?!",
Then suddenly all the pain and grief are suddenly forgotten,
"A boy next" Those famous last words of your poor husband!
Nov 1, 2009
Nov 1, 2009 at 3:39 AM UTC
I have spent many hours over the years
Staring sadly at pictures of girls with delicate pale skin
(Much like mine, but without stretchmarks or scars)
Who wore soft, flowing dress
And high cut shorts
And flower crowns
And lamented mentally the fact that I was not small
Or delicate or sprightly enough
To wear flowers crowns and pastel dresses and golden sandals
And I have spent many an hour soaking myself in the sadness
That who I feel like inside and how I feel I have to express myself
Because of my size, the width of my hips, the set of my shoulders
Were not things that matched
But I am trying my best to remember
That the bulge of my stomach
and the thickness of my thighs
And the stretch marks trailing over my skin
Do not make me unworthy
Of dressing delicately and femininely
And I am just as much allowed
To wear gauze and flower crowns
As the next girl
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
Because,
He fell for the red on her cigarette,
Her breath on floating dandelions,
The eyelash on her cheek,
The stretchmarks on her thighs,
The little hairs on her belly,
The way her eyebrows don't perfectly match,
The way she loved dogs more than children,
The way she stares at tree leaves swaying.
He fell for her as a whole
Not the way others had before,
And she, did not care.
She constantly fell in the sea
Of arms, that has haunted
Since her eyes began to see lust.
Drowning endlessly,
Knowing he would send her a lifeboat.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
It's 11:11 make a wish
Look out the spotty window
See all the frowns
And boring towns
See how powerful the words we use are
They can cut deep
Deeper than the most violent assault
Buildings and obelisks of befuddlement
Pressed for time
Lemon scented tiles
Scrubbed
No mold
Personal preference
Common courtesy
And common sense
Scarce but invaluable
A face only a mother could love
And a father can lie to
Coulda
Woulda
Shoulda
Didn't
Searching for carrion
Give way
To the wayside
ECNALUBMA
In the rear view
The worms eat us
The early birds catch the worms
The cat nabs the worm
After being resurrected by satisfaction
And the night owl writes the tell-all
Put the ear to glass
Put the glass to the door
And listen closely
To sound of knuckles cracking
And the chattering of coffee shop patrons
Indian givers going back on their word
Fingerless gloves
Prim and proper
Promptly pummeling
Tunneling to tomorrow
Well done
Slim to none
Fat chance
The local native's tongue
Sold fresh and farm raised
On any given day
You can find demi-gods
Playing a a pick up game
Matchbook
Matchbox
Mismatch socks
Pick up sticks and stretchmarks
Just stay the night
So we can wish this all away together
It's 11:12 open your eyes
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
We stand unrobed where daylight splits the air,
Her thighs a bramble, mine are smooth and spare.
The mirror's glare reveals what we both share:
One breast a plum, its twin a rounder pear.
Time’s cursive scrawls on skin we’ve learned to bare—
Her stretchmarks ripple, tides, my palms embrace.
No clues hide the faint silver in her hair—
My thumb traces the laugh-lines on her face.
Past phantoms fade—two clocks now beat as one.
Her skin, once chilled, now thaws beneath my sighs;
My stony silence ripens into sun;
Time-frozen hearts melt in each other's eyes.
Your mouth—a fig split ripe—now drinks my moan:
We fuse to one fierce sun, no dusk, no dawn.
Feb 8, 2025
Feb 8, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
post a photograph on the internet
feel stupid
delete it
you mean very little to me but
I desperately want your approval
sit down, place mobile fan in front of face
close eyes
try to breathe
fall back into meadow of linen
rest head on lillypad pillow
teach mom how to properly pronounce "cherry triple soothing action"
fantasize about growing up in Laguna Beach
open eyes
get off bed
stand in front of closet mirror
this is your reflection
this is your mouth tinted in violet
these are the outlines of restless nights beneath the crease of
bottom lashes
these are your shoulders
these are your *******
stretchmarks replicate on the spectrum of your back like
electromagnetic waves
fantasize about growing longer legs
write a letter to somebody that you used to love
wonder where feelings go when you no longer feel them
mind begins to waiver oblivion
you can no longer follow
and you no longer want to
tear up letter in four pieces
stare down at idle light pink hands
they are the same two that caressed his face between them
they are the same two that wrote the words that would tear him apart
attach an emotion to a memory
paste meaning to a sentence where there is none
store consciousness in binary file
shut down computer
restart brim of indifferent heart
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
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
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
You are beautiful.
Even with the bags under your eyes from your many sleepless nights.
Even with the stretchmarks on your thighs that you hate.
Even with scars you bare on your skin when you just wanted relief.
It didn't matter if you aren't the prettiest girl out there but to me, you are the most beautiful, with the most beautiful soul that is the only one that matters to me.
Even if you think yourself as crazy and odd.
Even if you only wear sweat pants and ratty t-shirt you always wore.
You are beautiful.
Never let others say that you aren't.
{E.I}
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
I'm filled with stretchmarks. So many you might think I could fall into one of them. It's like these cracks on my skin want to imitate what's going on in my heart.
My mom told me we could get laser done so they'll go away. She also doesn't really want to remember how broken I was, just like my skin. She always say'd it'd go away.
You also have stretchmarks, I suppose. But I can't picture you falling into them. I see you painting flowers on them and letting everyone kiss them. Kiss your wounds, but never anyone elses.
Maybe someday you'd want to see my stretchmarks, and maybe you'll help me paint flowers on them. Maybe with your voice, with your hands, with your words.
Or maybe just, just.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 1:12 AM UTC
i am cold in a winter that isn't
so much like winter
i am frozen in the idea of magazines
thinspo
and whatever the opposite of that is
it is still encouraging
i want a ballerina body
i want to surround myself in water and green tea
avocados
i want to be bendy
well, bendier
i want collar bones to push out
ribcage to jut out
thin arms
thin waist
i am tired of stretchmarks and sadness
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
I want to press myself into your skin. I want to wedge my words between your fingers.
Let me see the dirt underneath your nails that have etched your face behind my eyes.
My chest is on fire, my soul is about to burst.
Stretchmarks lay across my chest; I think I might be making room for this.
But I'm so afraid to rip at the seams that run along these sides.
And I'll watch your lips for days, memorize the shape that they make when you say my name.
You've made a home in me, and with each word spoken I've helped to move you in.
We're nothing more than roommates in this soul of mine, but I'm biding my time so that I can keep on this rhyme.
My stomach is queasy, I think I better take this easy.
And I'm sorry that I embarrass you with each and every sip.
So afraid to make a slip.
Running away from you with every shot and chasing him down to make it worth every dress I've ever bought.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
I have an extreme hatred towards my body, and even losing weight I still despise it so much. I had this idea in my mind that once I lose the weight I want to I will love my body and love myself but I seem to hate myself and my body more as time goes on and the more weight I lose. I still can't compare to all of the attractive men in the world. There are so many men without ANY sagging skin or any stretchmarks or any love handles and I will never, ever be one of those people no matter how much weight I lose and it depresses me so much to the point where I now avoid as many social situations as I can so I don't have to look at the beautiful women in this world and want to cry because I'll never be one of them. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. Even though I'm at a healthy weight now and I have a really good BMI, I feel like I'll never be happy. I disgust myself
Sorry.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
.
.
.
I walk into a Sheetz and I notice
there are a lot of people
giving me some strange looks
what could they be looking at?
I wonder, my fly is zipped and everything
is there something on my face?
so I go into the bathroom
and look into the full-length mirror
they have for some reason
and I don't recognize the person
staring back at me
he's uglier than anyone I know
I leave out of there and headed home
in shock, basically
because I know that stranger was me
I have a ****** up eye,
a crooked smile
and acne, for some reason
my eyebrows look like
two of those furry-ass
brown caterpillars
my skin is kinda blotchy
and I've got stretchmarks
*where I used to have ****
seriously...full-blown man-tits
I think I even
seen a few gray hairs
and I found a mole
on my best day,
with a haircut and a trim
*I'm still a ******* mess*
VII A*
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
Just as over the course
of a year, the seasons change,
inevitably, over the course
of life, a woman's body will change.
The photoshopped
supermodel on the cover
of a fashion magazine
is an 'ideal' that does not exist.
While the allure of
youth & vitality cannot
be denied, neither can
the appreciation for time & experience.
It's the honorable path
walked by
all maidens
& matriarchs.
A path that comes with
blemishes,
cellulite,
scars & stretchmarks.
Wrapped
in every
shape,
size & skin color.
Yet, it's these so-called
'imperfections'
that render her
fascinating & unique.
A paragon of feminal
physique, so luminously
patterned &
intrinsically beautiful.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
this shell is useless
with scars and cuts and stretchmarks and spots
i'm a hopeless mosaic
pieces from different places
marks from different memories
yet my soul is glowing, one with my heart
this body is useless
welcome to my museum
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC