By Ameya Ghosh
They tell me I should love myself,
And I know I should love myself.
It’s not like I don’t want to,
It’s simply that I can’t,
Because every mirror reflects my insecurities.
I can’t stand the sight of legs in skinny jeans.
My face is just so round,
And honestly, I’d rather go blind than owe an apology.
The button doesn’t close,
My scars are all exposed.
It won’t go over my knees.
Do I have to make me bleed?
Is it really just a number if it affects me so hard?
My body is making my mind fall apart,
And my mind won’t accept my body the way that it is.
The stretch marks and acne are making me sick.
It’s just a number,
But it makes me avoid food and sleep.
It’s just a number,
But it’s been way over a week where I’ve felt at home in my own skin,
Where I’m not alone, but I never win.
Because I hate myself,
And my body too.
Because I know I should love myself,
But I’m so ugly, it’s cruel.
Fat everywhere I touch,
Skin is oily and rough.
Hair is dry and frail,
And I can’t stand my ugly chipped nails.
Should I forget my flaws and physical appearance?
And I should love me for the heart that beats inside my chest.
I have tried,
But I think pretty privilege is a real thing.
Cause if I was pretty, I would love me from outside and within.
But I’m not,
So I suffer with my sins.
Every time I think about it,
My body’s the same size,
But it feels heavier to me.
It’s not just a number if it makes you bleed.