I can be perfect just like society wants,
Lose half my weight, and stick out my chest,
But not too far that would be ‘whore’ like.
I’ll hold up my chin, and say whatever people want to hear.
Oh, I’ll seem unfazed by the harsh words, and rude games.
I’ll tell everyone I’m perfect. I mean, if I was ‘perfect’,
My hair would be long and soft and blonde, right?
I’d have curves here, not there, thin it there, and give that some curve,
Between starving and smiling I don’t know what else to do,
I mean my clothes will follow all the latest trends,
And my music? Only everything everyone listens too,
I’ll sing every word to a song that degrades everyone, and then go say everyone’s perfect too, but I won’t mean it.
It’ll look like I do because I’ll be that good little girl to the mature world,
And a party hard (but not too hard) to all my friends.
My parents will be proud, and I won’t be rich but we’ll have money.
I’ll have the cool parents and be the perfect daughter.
I’ll have the cutest guy, and we’ll be so in love, because he’ll be so sweet and so great.
And my parents and friends and everyone else will love him like they love me.
I’ll get A’s and be valedictorian; I’ll be everyone’s best friend and the head cheerleader or something.
I’ll be perfect, beyond all societies’ expectations.
If societies perfect was possible then most would strive for it.
More than the ones that already do.
But it’s not perfect; let me share something between me and you.
These 167 pounds of short, plump catastrophe always dreamt of perfection.
Of being the girl I can never be, the one the boys would drool over and the girls would envy.
The one with that perfect body, with a bright smile, and great hair.
My skin you say? If I were perfect these blemishes would never come about,
But imperfection is all I’m about.
With my small legs and belly that refuses to leave,
I’m imperfection, and I don’t have it that easy.
Battling Depression, Anxiety, and the horror of not being good enough,
You know what it feels like to not be good enough?
To pluck and tuck, and scrub and wax, and shave and suck,
To be everything I’m not, everything I never dreamed to be.
This is what society does; I know this because society ruined me.
My paranoia is off the charts.
Whisper I dare you, and I convince myself you were discussing me.
My bad posture, my short legs, my belly, my skin, my imperfections.
Because everyone talks about everyone else’s.
To hide the point they hate their own.
I want to walk up to my enemy and tell her how much I wish I had her legs.
Because we hate what we can’t have.
For we can’t be the most perfect to get the guy.
To get the job, to get the friends, to get the attention…
To reach complete and total perfection.
It’s sick, day dreaming about being someone else,
Knowing you can’t change you, you’re stuck in this body.
And society feeds this pain.
This never ending game and never ending shame.
The never ending, I hate myself,
And these walls lined with mirrors make me realize it more.
This makes me want to never walk through that door.
Don’t call me pretty, or cute, or lovely, or anything.
Only call me by what I know me to be.
Imperfect and ugly.
Because your words won’t even be worth it.
I won’t believe it, because society told me not too.
Be this girl! The one in the swimsuit on the magazine!
The one who is so perfect.
She screams: BE LIKE ME, BE LIKE ME.
You see? I grew up hating this body.
Till I was 13 I wouldn’t show my legs, I thought they were too big, too ugly to be seen.
I’d cover my body, jeans and baggy sweatshirt, just so no one would have to see me,
Because I couldn’t even look at me.
So, thank you society, for making a monster of me.
But I’m not the normal monster; I don’t go after anyone but myself,
Because that’s all society taught me.
I am no princess, so I was young when I convinced myself I’d never get my prince,
And as I grew it sunk in.
Imperfect is what society made me.
Depression and hatred is what it gave me.
This monster in the mirror is all that’s left of me.
Please, don’t end up like me.