Imperfect Girl

A prose poem of sorts that I wrote. Sadly, it is auto-biographical.

 

She stands before herself and this is who she sees. She feels disconnected. This isn’t who she wants to be. This person isn’t what she wants to see when she looks at herself. She is exposed to the cold, to the walls, to herself. She hates the way it reflects and she has to feel it to make it real.

 

She hates the mounds of pale flesh beneath her fingers, the curves that have become landslides. The pale, pink stretch marks are permanent reminders of the expanding skin; sheer, pink veins snaking their way across her sides, across the expanse of skin that has always been a part of her. She hates the scars too, the scars that show what she has lost, what she has willingly given away. Tiny pink dots where she had been sewn back together, a trail to put the pieces back, to close the holes. No one wants these scars, no one wants this imperfection. She hates the folds and crevices, the cracks and breaks. She hates.

 

She hates everything that she sees. She hates her reflection. She hates this part of her, this person that she is. Inside of her mind she is beautiful and she is strong. She is confident and brave and she is smart. But outside of her mind, outside in the world, in the naked, honest world she is none of those things. She doesn’t feel these things when she looks at herself, when she sees who she really is. No one else sees these things. No one sees the laughter in her eyes or the smile. No one cares about the girl inside. They can’t get past the mounds, the hills, the rolling, sloping hills of flesh, of imperfection, of excess goods. 

 

She is ugly, undesirable. She is fat. Always fat, always overweight, always never, ever good enough. For anyone. Not even herself. Never herself. She searches for the strength to love all that she sees. Love will never come without love first reflecting on herself. But she can not find herself. She is lost, lost in the cracks and the breaks – lost in the imperfection.

Reviews

[Sujash I. Purna]

A perfect tone of self-depreciation oozes from each line. Lovely work!

[Crimson1]

Sometimes unstructured streams of consciousness reveal truths we didn't even know we understood. Imperfection is what makes us beautiful, imperfection is how we relate to one another.