I love lace and satin

and skin-tight tank tops.

I love skirts and shirts that give me shape.

I love pulling back a baggy tee

to reveal some sort of curve,

even if it is only my imagination.

I love my body in certain conditions,

in certain clothing. 

I love my eyes, 

but only when they’re 

drowning in eyeliner and mascara.

I love my lips,

when they aren’t dry 

and cracking 

and plain.

I love my nose,

but only at an upward, 

slightly-turned-to-the-left angle.

I love my hands

but only with inch-long talons,

otherwise my fingers look sausage-like.

My skin 

is scattered 

with stretch marks

and scars.

I wish I could peel them away,

peel away my skin

I want to peel away my skin

and apply something prettier,

something fitter.

Something you will like.

I don’t want to be viewed just for sex,

but I sexualize myself on the daily.

I love my chest,

but only when my tits are pushed up

so much that they spill out.

I love my stomach,

when it’s sucked in and squeezed. 

I love my legs,

but only after I’ve spent 45 minutes shaving them.

I base my beauty on how

sexually attractive I am,

on how likely a creep would catcall me. 

If there is a God,

why didn’t he make me more beautiful?

Why did he give me bumps and blubber?

If he really loved me, 

why would he shove me

outside of society’s standards?

Why must I feel “good enough” for someone?

Can’t I just be?

-05/07/24