Trigger Warning: Mentions of self harm
Style: Poetry
Statement: Body image is not a joke.
If I could take scissors,
And cut off what I didn’t like,
(What would be left?)
Standing in the mirror,
I try and I try,
(She deserves nothing less)
They tell me I should be grateful,
Then spill a snide remark,
They compliment me in front of others,
And taunt me in the dark,
They ‘fix up’ all my ‘pieces,’
Then hammer out a hole,
You can't tell me this is a free country,
When I don’t own my soul,
When broken hearts and twisted dreams,
Swirl in puddles,
Breaking seams,
When soft ribbons,
And velvet sleeves,
Seem to bleed with my screams,
When I’m wrapped in warm words,
But tears are pouring through the sheets.
When I’m held at the heart,
And then they crush me with deceit—
They say I’m their pride and joy,
But hold their expectations up so high,
I reach, I climb up hills,
They run, they hunt, they kill,
I try, I try, I try,
(She’s stupid when she cries.)
But when broken hearts and twisted dreams,
Engulf you whole,
Encage your gleam,
It’s not always how it seems,
(You have to hurt, to know to bleed)
But at least that blood,
Can make a girl,
Who’s here to say they haven’t won.
At least that girl,
Who knows her worth,
Can make a team that’s just begun.
At least that team is in a time,
Where others aren’t left alone,
At least we know that when we cry,
We have a world to let us know:
At least we have the arms to write,
At least we have the legs to run,
At least we have the hips to climb,
(and reach the stars they call too high),
At least we have the skin to feel,
At least we have the lungs to breath,
At least we have the height to help,
At least we have the blood to bleed.
(If you could take scissors,
and cut off what you didn’t like,
Would there be anything left?...)
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