Poems.

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When I first learned that no one could love me more than me,
a world of happiness previously unseen was discovered.
Because somewhere along the lines of aging and scrutiny and time,
I was taught to despise myself,
but I made sure to keep myself beautiful so someone would love me someday,
so I could belong to someone along the road, because that's the most important thing a little girl could ever want, right?
I was close to twelve the first time I was embarrassed about my body,
of course it wouldn't be the last.
And I could remember,
with tears stinging my eyes,
hoping,
praying to something,
that I could look beautiful enough today,
braces and all, for the ruthless boys,
who mercilessly told me I was worthless, because I wasn't pretty enough.
I would go home and put on a sweatshirt with my eyes closed,
deny myself the right to be shown myself,
because I didn't dare want to insinuate beauty in regards to something as insulting as my body.
But I mean, we all end up with our heads between our knees,
because the only place that we will truly feel safe is curled up in skin that we've been taught to hate by a society that shuns our awful confidence and feeds us our own flaws.
And sometimes,
when I need to meet the me that loves me,
I can't find her.
A reminder that the mirror is meant to be a curse,
so I confine her in my mind,
and when he or she shouts, "let me out",
we are allowed to listen.
But it's met by a chorus of conceited,
egotistical,
narcissist,
but when was self solicitude a sin?
Since when was loving who we are an offense by morons who don't matter?
Change this physicality and that one,
don't you dare shatter the illusion you could ever be anything beyond paper fine flesh and flashy teeth and fingernails, echoic accusations of not good enough, never good enough, have you ever felt so numb that it hurts,
"entertain me, Whore."
You can't surrender to them.
You have to remember that you're the only thing that you'll ever truly have.
And no, I don't mean your body, because someday it'll go bad no matter what you do.
I mean you.
I mean the way your bright eyes go wild when you smile, and how your laughter is so melodic it's a song.
I mean how your creativity's a compass that leads you to what you love.
You don't need any miracle cream to keep your passions smooth, hair free or diet pills to slim your kindness down.
And when you start to drown in these petty expectations,
you better examine the miracle of your own existence because you are worth so much more than your waistline.
You are worth the beautiful thoughts you think, and the daring dreams you dream undone and loose.
But sometimes we forget that.
Because we live in a world where the media pulls us from the womb, and teaches us our first words, "skinny, pretty, skinny, pretty, girls, soft, quiet, pretty,
Boys, manly, muscle, pretty"
But I don't care wether it's your looks, your gender, your weight, your skin, or where your love lies.
None of that matters because standards don't define you.
You don't live to meet credentials created by a mad man.
You're a goddamn treasure wether you want to believe it or not.
And maybe that's what everyone should start looking for.