Poetry

31. creator

Dear my creator,
You added too much red
to those splotches near my ears;
people's hair isn't meant to look like that

you made too many freckles on my arm
next to the fact that the ones on my face
have worn off with time;
please paint them back

you sculpted my back wrong;
it's too pale and prone to pimples
too much oil you must've left there
now I use face wash on my back;
that's not normal

you made my skin too light;
my mother's tan would suit me better
you can slowly add it in
we'll blame the sun

my eyes are too light brown,
i look too average, don't you see?
this mess inside my head just doesn't reflect out

dear creator,
you've made mistakes
my spine was built all twisted
and my legs are much too short.

my hips were made too wide;
my butt too big, my pants don't fit,
my fingers short and stubby,
but i don't mind those so much.

my waist is way too small,

my face too round

my feet too short -
my brother's eight, and he can
almost wear my size.

in a year, my doppleganger won't be so;
you made him grow
but stopped me short.
don't you see, creator?

you're letting him move on with what i've always wanted
but never will get.

you didn't even give me the confidence i need to make it through this.

creator, you've messed up.
you've messed up on making me, you see,
you did it wrong

you made my brain too big,
or my body too small,
or one may be green
but the other not at all
but something isn't lining up here.

something's wrong, my creator, and now i don't know how to live

in a life where my body was just a compilation of your accidental flaws.