Girls Like You

It must be nice to be you.

Girls like you that look like that-

tiny, thin, attractive.

What society wants girls to look like.

It must be nice to be able

to talk about your weight

and weight loss with ease

in public settings like the pool.

But it’s not for me.

I know everyone has their struggles,

and a different mountain to climb,

but when you sit 5 feet from me

and complain about going from

104 pounds to 110,

and calling yourself fat,

it kills me inside.

You are so thin.

You re so confident.

You are so beautiful.

I would give almost anything

to deal with your dilemma.

Because as you stated,

girls our height are supposed to weigh

one hundred forty pounds max.

You may be far beneath that,

but I am far above that

and hearing you flaunt this fact

while I am in earshot

right after I just worked my ass off

discourages me.

I wish I could flaunt confidence

the way you can flaunt your stomach,

but I can’t. I’m insecure.

And my progress is slow

and a long journey awaits me.

But please, just please

let me feel comfortable

and supported

and empowered to take it.

Don’t slow me down.

I have an extra 100 pounds

to do that for me.

 

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Inferior

I hate what I’ve become.

I hate how I look.

I can’t even look in the mirror.

When I see other girls

with their boys and makeup

I can’t help but feel inferior.

It’s hard to be proud

of the way that I look

when even I know I’m fat.

People can lie

and tell me I’m fine,

but there’s no truth behind any of that.

I know I’m not a ten

and I don’t want to be perfect,

but I wish I could turn just one head.

I’ve never been attractive,

but now I don’t even try.

I never want to leave my bed.

I wish I was pretty,

either inside or out,

but I’ll never be called “beautiful”.

I wish I could hide

and spare the world of my face.

For society and the world, I’m unsuitable.

 

 

 

Ponytail

They tell me I’m not good enough.

That I’m too rough and tough.

They say they’re going to change me.

There’s someone else I must be.

They tell me no more ponytails.

Instead we’ll give you fake nails.

They say I must hide my face.

Cake it with makeup to take its place.

They say my clothes are to drab.

Being slutty is much more “fab”.

They say they must have total control.

That I must sell them my soul.

They say I must give up what I do.

I put up a fuss; it’s not me, it’s you!

They say there is no line to draw.

But that was the final straw.

Who I am is up to me.

I can be who I want to be.

You can try to change me, but you will fail.

Because I am keeping my ponytail.