All Types of Wrong Made Me Right

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Growing up, I was told
that all of me was wrong.
A waist too big, breasts too small.
Much too tall and far too wide.
My parents encouraged
a hatred of my body.
Told what not to eat.
Praised when I lost two pounds.
Scolded after I lied about
my weight to my mom.
Body positivity is
not what I was taught.
I was raised to believe
that my body was a reason
to be ashamed.

And if I could do it all over,
if I was a little girl again,
I would speak up for myself.
Shout from rooftops that
I am beautiful. Valuable.
That no amount of your words
will make my hate my body
because I am what matters.
My opinion is the only one that counts.
The journey is a struggle.
Uphills are mountains
downhills like skydiving
without a parachute.
One day I love every cell
of the body that I inhabit.
The next, I'm cursing
inch after inch.

Instead of basing our worth
on an outside appearance,
judge yourself by the heart.
Those feelings that you try to kill
with razors and pills and drinks
are what make you human.
Our bodies end up as
casualties in this war.
Wounds and bruises
inflicted by self or society
encroach personal space.
We mask our insecurities
with flared eyeliner and
cherry red lipstick.
Hide behind sweatshirts
and yoga pants.
No amount of diet foods,
scar tissue, or make-up
will change who you are.

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