She’s sorry.

She’s sorry that her voice is too loud for you,
Accent too ghetto for you,
Language too slang for you.

She’s sorry.

She’s sorry that her hair’s too kinky for you,
Way too curly to meet your standards,
Afro so short,
She might as well be a boy.

She’s sorry.

She’s sorry her eyes don’t see, unless concealed by thick lenses,
Her smile’s split by a gap,
But hey,
She has a dimple,
So it’s kind of cute.

She’s sorry.

She should have never worn those shorts,
Walked outside in that halter,
Even though all the others did.

She’s sorry.

She’s so sorry her thighs are so ‘thick’,
Hips too wide,
So wide, it’s no longer a trend.

She’s sorry.

She’s sorry.

She’s so so sorry.

She’s done.
Making apologies to the world,
When there is nothing, she should be sorry for,
But the audacity, she has for loving herself.
Instead she’s proud.

Proud that she is able to look in the mirror and smile-
Genuinely smile,
With creases that will become permanent.
Teeth brilliantly shining.
Dimples drilled in so deep,
You’d swear someone put them there.

Because she realised,

There was never anything wrong with her,

Her size,
Her curves,
Her laugh,
Her personality,
Her scars,
Her flaws.

It was never her job to look like the people in the magazines.

Her job was to be

Unconditionally,

Unapologetically

Happy.

And in the end, all she was sorry for, was that she wasn’t sorry;