I. Fell. Short.

As a child I saw

the beauty that was,

simply put, not me.

 

The other little

girls in their pretty

pink dresses and white

ribbons seemed somehow

more, better, and I

felt ugly, lost, less.

 

Even at nine years old

I compared my waist

to theirs, my skin to

theirs, my hair to theirs,

and every time

I. Fell. Short.

 

Even at fourteen years

old I compared my

breasts to theirs, my lips

to theirs, my hair to

theirs, and every time

I. Fell. Short.

 

Short of their beauty,

short of those heights so

unreachable. But

maybe one day--maybe.

Maybe, if I worked

for it. Maybe, if

I starved myself.

Maybe, if I wore

those certain clothes and

ate those certain foods.

 

Then one day I went

to compare myself

to them again, and

stopped, because a tear

had trickled down my

cheek at the mere thought.

 

So I stopped, scolded

myself for falling

for such lies, and leapt

off the cliff that is

beauty--only this

time, I did not fall short.

 

I flew.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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