i pass the mirrors in my bathroom.

and i never fail to notice every fault of mine,

stretched out in front of me.

similar to the stretchmarks god has gratefully placed upon my thighs.

i examine every mistake and blemish before anyone else does.

i have very few parts of me that outshine my flaws,

but i walk around with a thunder cloud over my head,

as if i rain over my own parade.

i have parts of me that will crumble if anyone or anything shocks my ego,

i am like a dilapidated skyscraper.

depressed by all of the corrosion of the land where the building stands,

well stood.

i take into account every jiggly piece of flesh on my body,

and i wake up in the morning , praying, that when i look into the mirror,

it would mysteriously vanish,

and i would ask no questions.

real, regular, flawed.

this is what i can not be, but what i have become from all the pain i have endured

chubby, big-boned, thick.

all words i use to describe the layer of skin,

circling around my stomach and thighs.

five foot-six and a half  frame.

pain is what i feel about the body i inhabit,

and just when i begin to love myself,

the people i am suppose to turn to for support,

critique me in every way, shape, and form.

comparing me to the slimmer rest of my sex,

becoming incredibly difficult to ignore.

do you think i do not dwell on the fact that other girls have tiny waists and toned thighs?

i am obsessed with feeling wanted, accepted, beautiful.

Hmmm, must be nice.

something i have never felt before, but have wanted since forever.

but instead, i feel like i am being forcibly stuffed into the casing,

called my skin.

i am the careful amalgamation of imperfections.