a hopeless romantic's winding tales of love and other things.

crave

i've been told for most of my time,
that i am one word.
nice.
which isn't a bad thing.

but as i grow older, i become greedy for more.
i want to be as delicate as the other girls,
because they get to be called
elegant, beautiful, lovely, wonderful.
and have sweet boys, loving them at their sides.

why can't i?
has society just told me i'm undeserving
of the love i crave, because of my weight?

was it like the time i was told by my mother to 'grab another size'
because she already knew,
the clothing i desired
would look disgusting on my big frame?

was it like the night in junior high
i spent crying, because the boy i liked
told me that we'd be 'better as friends'
and we never spoke again?

why can't i be like the others?
vibrant as various flowers,
growing gardens of adolescence.
and i sit, rotting.
a wilted, watered down weed.