poetry journal

like me.

I've always hated my chest.

When I was ten, I hated it because its flat surface made me look childish next to the premature girls, whose breasts had grown in over the summers. Boys always picked them, because without breasts, I was practically a boy myself, considering how much I enjoyed the "boyish" things in life. 

So I changed myself. 

I grew my hair, I listened to girlier music, I pretended to despise football weekends with my Dad. Anything to get them to like me, right? 

When I was fourteen, I learned to become ashamed of my breasts. I was not to wear anything that showed my midriff, because that would make boys feral, and we can't have that, now, can we? And yet, despite your new haircut, and clothes, the boys still opt for the "original" girl, because no one wants a carbon copy of a girlfriend. 

So I changed myself.

I cut my hair to what I wanted it to be, I changed my music to what I enjoyed I sunk back into my sports enjoyment. Anything to get them to like me, right?

And now I'm seventeen, stuck between showing myself off and hiding myself, because no boy likes a girl who puts her body on display, but how else would they notice her? Because putting your body on display for the world makes you a slut, but she should still be confident in herself. Otherwise, she's pitiful. 

But I can't change myself.

My hair has been through entire jars or hair dye. My music is what comforts me, and nothing more. Sports are one of the only true interests that I have.

So will they like me?