Standards Of Beauty

I am tired of walking outside,

surrounded by a group of friends

or a group of strangers alike,

erasing my focus from the joy of the moment,

but instead honing in on how

my thighs compare

and if others will stare

and assuming that everyone cares

about my thighs.


I am sick of standing in front of my reflection

and filling my eyes with tears

while simultaneously

filling my body and mind

with a comingling of despair and loathing

at how my body looks in my clothing

and so critically noting

how my stomach is not flat

and drilling it into myself that I am fat.


I hate the fact that we have

“standards of beauty”

that we must follow

so as not to stray from the narrow definition

of what being beautiful is.

I hate how aesthetics are interlaced

with, and determine, human worth,

as if a pretty face is more important

than a determined mind,

pearly whites are held above being kind,

leg hair and cotton underwear are

unsexy, unrefined.


I despise the normality

of poor self-esteem,

and that hating your body

is a common trait that binds

you with strangers.

I despise the normality

of eating too little and

exercising too much,

all in the vain name

of “fixing” a body

that was never broken to begin with.

A stomach that stands convex, not concave

is not a reason to feel ashamed,

to exercise to the point of irreversible pain,

to allow carbs and fats to make you afraid.


I deeply loathe the media’s use

of the public’s fears of not fitting in

to convince the public that being thin

is equivalent to being worth anything

and if you’re not thin enough,

then you will never win.


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