My body is a garden untamed,
a wildness I never asked for,
where thick vines of hair twist and curl,
growing in places they shouldn't,
like weeds that refuse to obey.
My skin, once soft, now roughened,
marked by the slow, stubborn rise
of what the world calls excess.
Fat clings to me like a heavy fog,
settling in folds, shaping me
into something I cannot control.
The hormones rage beneath,
a storm I cannot see but feel,
waves of heat, sharp as daggers,
and moods that shift like seasons
I never learned to predict.
I wake up feeling foreign,
a stranger in this thickening skin,
a body always battling itself,
trying to make peace with the mirror,
but finding only fragments of who I used to be.
The world is full of whispers:
"too much, not enough,
change yourself, hide yourself."
But this body is mine,
even in its rebellion,
even when it refuses to fit
into the shape I was promised.
I carry the weight of it all,
the struggle to be seen,
to feel soft again,
to know that beneath this storm,
there's still a garden waiting to bloom.
