Things Are(n't) Wrong with Me

I stare at myself in the mirror
in disgust. Torturing my own
self esteem with what I see
staring back at me.

Too much pudge in the midsection
I could say. Perhaps I could shave
a few inches from my rubbing
thighs. My breasts can use a lift
and the crease in my eyes could
be a little less deep.
The stretching marks can be softened
and lightened. Why must I get them
so easily? My hair could lengthen
and my face could use a little
clarity.

My shoulders may be a little
too broad for certain tops. Or my
breast can be too big and add to
my dress size. Maybe my face can
be less fat and my hands a little smaller
my arms less longer. My feet can shrink
a few numbers.

Perhaps my thighs are too big
for my legs and my butt too sagged.
My bones could be less dense and help
the number on the scale decrease. If
my skin evened out then maybe it
could be more beautiful.

Beautiful
Beauty
Beaut.

Perfect
Perfection, perfection, perfection
Per, per, per—

My sanity wouldn’t be the same
if I kept staring in the mirror
trying to depict everything wrong.
I’m not a category, or a model,
or an idea.

I am a human being.