Skinny,
many people have said.
Beanpole,
my grandma once said.
Flat,
stupid *Spinach said.
Breast cancer,
an irrelevant grasshole guy said.
Alien,
three normals have said.
My arms,
like a monkeys.
My eyes,
four eyed.
My hair,
a disorderly mess.
"What is this?"
Spinach would ask,
giving a slight tug to the mess.
"But that face though,"
she would say,
silencing my day.
All smiles go away,
when Spinach arrives in my day,
my happiness drained,
with a single glance her way.
These words up top
apparently describe me.
I'm skinny, but so what?
A beanpole? Fudge off.
Breast cancer?
I thought I'd die because of that one guy
in fifth grade who dared to utter
those scary words, sent my way because
my chest held no breasts, a weird thing to
YOU ARE READING
Body {Prose Vol. 1}✔
Poetry❝A struggle with body image is a study of physicalities and of the mind itself, for the mind plays with what the eyes perceive. The body, mind, and soul are connected, and it is up to us to determine how to respect them.❞ - Me These writings are my...
