it’s hard to come to terms with your body
when you’ve never loved it.
it’s hard to come to terms with a place
that you’ve worked so hard to reach
and not see the change you wanted.
yes, i should feel happy in my body,
but it’s hard to
when everyone else’s is what you want.
it’s hard to love a temple that isn’t decorated the way you’d like.
as a whole, i love myself.
but, there’s no part that i fully love.
i’ve always hated my thighs.
even in kindergarten, i’d pinch them
thinking they’d get smaller
as i sat criss-cross applesauce on my classroom’s brightly-colored rug.
recently, i’ve come to despise the flabbiness of my arms.
it’s not that they’re too big,
but i wish i didn’t have to do millions of push-ups to get the tone i want.
it’s hard to love my stomach,
even though it’s just my organs sitting on top of each other.
why couldn’t my genes allow my stomach to rest flat?
why can’t i wear my tight-fitting dress without the bump made by my breakfast?
no, my body doesn’t empower me.
i wish i was taller, thinner, had thicker hair.
i wish my chin was more defined,
my neck the same color as my face.
i wish i could run longer and faster.
i wish i could dance more gracefully; i wish i had more rhythm.
i wish my eyes didn’t water while i wrote this.
damn you, eyes.
i wish i could see 20/20,
not have to worry about my contacts falling out while i’m swimming
or be able to fall asleep without being confronted with dry, burning eyes when i wake up.
i wish i looked like i did in my dreams.
i wish i could fly all the way to outerspace and swim in the depths of the ocean without my lungs failing me.
for, even without a complex created by magazines,
it’s still hard for me to love the body i’m in.