Musings on Life from a Dead Girl

My Body

I hate my body.

Every inch of it.

I can find nothing redeemable in it.

My body has never failed to disappoint me.

The one thing it was made to do-- Survive.

It seems that this is too difficult a task.

My body always seems to fail me.

I hate my skin, that no amount of care can make clear.

The bloody spots, and scabs from picking.

That no matter how hard I try I cannot stop. 

I hate my scars.

I hate my hair, that no matter what I do looks frizzy.

I hate the extra hair I grow, that makes me feel like a monster. 

I hate the extra weight I carry around my middle.

That no amount of starving can rid me of.

I hate my hands.

I wish they were long and bony, instead of sort and thick.

I hate that I look like my family.

I hate my cheeks.

I hate my nose. 

I hate my teeth.

I hate my smile.

I hate that necklaces don't hang loose on my neck like they do on my sister.

I hate my too broad shoulders.

I hate that my eyes are too small.

I hate the sunspots and freckles. 

I hate the moles on my skin.

I hate my feet, that I cannot find shoes that fit.

I hate my ass.

I hate my breasts.

I hate that I am embarrassed by their small cup size and large band size. 

I hate that clothes that are tight on me are loose on my sister.

I hate my brain, and the tumor attached to it.

I hate that it loves to hurt me.

I hate my hormones that make me feel like an alien in my own body.

I hate that I don't feel feminine enough.

I hate that this is just a shell to me.

That I feel no attachment to my body.

I hate that I want to crawl out of my skin, but that I can't.

I hate how I look.

I hate how I feel.

I hate my mind. 

I hate my body.

I hate that I hate myself for the things I can't change.

I hate myself.