The Glow Up of a Crab by Grace Taylor

 

I find it kind of funny,

I find it kind of sad… 

that only when I had my glow up did people begin to acknowledge me.

Although I grew up as the kind of skinny that made my rib cage visible,

the girls in my elementary jealous,

the kind of skinny where I could eat anything I want without worry…

I didn’t have the face for it.

My teeth jutted out and apart as if making room for people’s taunts to get in when I smiled,

my nails reflected the anxious thoughts in my mind,

skin picked and peeling towards me jeeringly,

my glasses hid my face and insecurities,

but those shields never seemed to be enough to protect me from the words they threw at me.

I had long limbs that stretched on for miles, 

my pale, boney ankles slipped out past the bottoms of my loose jeans.

My hair was stringy and blonde like the hay my dad used at his farming job,

it tangled easily and got into what my mom called, “a rat’s nest.”

On the outside I had looked like that,

but on the inside I’m not quite sure what I looked like. 

I had been crammed into this body by bullies pushing me from every side,

I became almost like a crab, but without a hard shell to protect me.

I was somewhat snappy like a crab, 

but only if my brain could think of a somewhat witty remark to shoot off my sharp tongue.

Those snaps were not witty,

funny, 

or clever,

they were used to try and shift what felt like a dumbbell weight of mocking off of me.

Defensive is what I was, 

and those snaps of what I wanted to be my crab claws never worked.

My shell-less back became bruised and bloodied, 

scars from words and laughs gouged me at every angle. 

Switching oceans a few years later changed everything,

I went into this new place on crashing waves of hope 

with images and dreams of what I wanted to happen racing around my mind.

I wanted more than anything to be noticed in a good way,

the way that made others jealous,

the way that made people want to converse with me,

the way that made others stop and stare,

the way that got me called, “pretty.” 

This new ocean affected me, 

but not in a bad way,

rather in the way that got me the attention I longed for. 

Metal wires and boxes over a few years yanked my teeth together,

insults now rebounding off them with no gaps to slip through.

My resting fest showed off my sharp jaw and full lips, 

the kind boys stared at before wanting to kiss you. 

I was no longer the kind of skinny that somehow got me made fun of,

I grew curves in places boys seemed to desire by the way they stared,

My crab legs filled out and the length became a benefit.

My skinny waist and flat stomach became something to show off in bikinis and tiny, tight tank tops

I had the chest for those tank tops too,

not too ample so nothing would spill out.

My ratty hair grew out into long, soft waves that cascaded around my face. 

I got looked at by boys,

their eyes filled with looks of want and need. 

Although I fell quickly in love with my outside changes,

my personality began to come out,

many of it in ways I never thought possible. 

The most prominent way came when my shell grew.

However, in contrast to that, I came out of my new shell.

Confidence became my weapon against those who used to use their own weapons against me,

my insecurities were slashed away with this new tool. 

I walked around my ocean with my head now held high,

people flocked to me calling out my name,

begging for my attention. 

My mouth now opened on its own want,

I had opinions that I allowed to flow from my tongue,

ideas came out freely and without fear of judgement. 

I had a multitude of friends,

and was never in the presence of just myself. 

I was finally where I wanted to be. 

However, deep down I find a deep dissatisfaction, 

that it took looking like this to get me acknowledged. 

Society as a whole ignores those they do not deem “pretty enough,”

as if those who have cellulite that some describe as “cottage cheese,”

stretch marks that climb down thighs like tiger stripes,

or acne that creates constellations on someone’s face,

are less of a person

than those who shop at that imaginary store in Mean Girls called, “One, Three, Five.”

Society also looks down up those

with crooked teeth like mine,

picked nails like mine, 

and messy hair like mine.

I find it kind of funny, 

I find it kind of sad, 

that only when I had my glow up did people begin to acknowledge me.