It all started
when someone didn't like me back,
no matter the effort
and time I poured.Or maybe long before
when people
who were close to me
always compared me with others.I have tan skin
in a country that glorified
white ones.I don't have small pores,
And I have a lot of pimples.
My eyebags are as large as my eyes,
And my lips are not small like a doll's.I have small breasts.
"Cup −A," they would tease me.I have huge hips and thighs
That I have a hard time fitting pants.
I was even called "thigh legs" before.
No matter the diet,
everything would go thin,
except for them.Sometimes I would just
look at some girls the same age as me
and just cry, wishing I were like them.And others would tell me,
"You're too sensitive" or
"You take things seriously."Things would get worse
when I remember the days
of hurt and pain
when I get reminded
that I am easily replaced.No matter how I tell myself,
"You're enough, you're enough,
you have to be enough
for yourself,"
I end up being swept away
by insecurity,
by anxiety,
and by the dark void.Even if there would always be
someone who'll remind me
that I am beautiful
inside and out—
and I am thankful for that—
still,
the darkness wins
over light.I just want to be
enough,
not for someone else
but for myself . . .
amid how imperfect I think I am,
not only how I look at myself physically
but also how anxiety and insecurity
overwhelm me at times.Why is it so hard to do?
This fragmented
piece of whatever
is just a reminder
to be gentle
at all times.Words are powerful,
and as I've said
in one of my pieces,
"Sometimes
words hurt a lot more
than actions ever could."
A word said in a matter of seconds
can scar someone forever.I still wait for the day
that I will no longer write
tales of a girl
whom many people can relate to
because
she was overwhelmed
by her own anxiety.
YOU ARE READING
About Her
PoetryPoems are her feelings She wants to keep private But she wants everyone to know