F for Effort
I first figured my figure would determine my future
As if photo-shop stops what I consider
And fear to be fat on my waistline,
That waste away from my fortress of self-loathing and façades of
“I’m fine”
Fine lines follow formulas for feminine beauty
Differentiable with a mirror,
Which frames my reflection with imperfections
That perfect a field, full of flowers on fire
A desire, to breathe the fresh scent of acceptance
Before the smoke of high standards fills
My fragile lungs and hearts that half-heartedly scream for freedom.
Figuratively constricted by fingers on zips
As I fight to find clothes that fit
As though an obsession for fashion should lessen depression
Because pretty fabrics diffuse the attention from my face
As I face the fact that no make-up makes up for
Laughter and kindness and beauty inside us,
A timeless phrase for females who flinch at their image
Ashamed to forget the food I finish;
Franticly forcing fingers down my throat
In the hope I forgive the futile attempt
To feed my body with fatal flavors
From self-pity to hatred, as I flick through photos
That offer no comfort, but confirm the belief
That fighting for freedom falls somewhere between failure and confusion.
So I forgot the figures that confine my mind
Stopped focusing on falling to size four from five to three from four and finally to zero
I fought the feeling that felt it fair
To judge myself as fat or my face as a failure
And at the frontline of my new found focus
Was freedom and beauty and fertility and substance
A realization that no photographer's flash could capture my intelligence
Or the fulfilling final moment of a finished piece
I gathered the pieces of my fragmented mind
And proudly confirmed that I'm more than fine
For I can find no feeling more fulfilling than
Feeling beautiful