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.

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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.