The Irony of Beauty

My thighs stretch out across the seat when I sit.

My forearms puff out like the Pillsbury Doughboy with just one poke.

My fingernails don’t grow as fast as I want them to.

My ankles are weak and give easily under my immense density.

My hips curve out like the most obnoxious, slutty hourglass.

My breasts point downward and do not cup as they should.

My eyebrows grow out of shape in a matter of minutes.

My stomach sits, rotund like an inner tube.

 

I am beautiful.

 

My thighs flex, my muscles flashing by as I sprint.

My forearms are smooth and burst with freckles after a day in the sunlight.

My fingernails grow through patience and perseverance.

My ankles are slender and delicate.

My hips reflect Marilyn’s, a trait some women would kill for.

My breasts are a proportional topping to my torso.

My eyebrows naturally define my face and widen the shape of my eyes.

My stomach sits, expanding in and out with every breath, every breath

            of the magnificent life I have been given.

 

I am beautiful.

 

It has taken years and time and years and rhyme

but I am here

I am in love with myself

And that, that

is true beauty.

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