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

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
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