Malformed

 

 

My body is malformed. 

It has every single limb but I can't conform. 

The thighs, the sides, the stomach, the hands;

they're all too round, too soft. 

And if I could cut away the pieces, cut away the fat,

maybe I would be happier with my size.

But I can't stand to be divided, to be so torn.

Society doesn't like me. Because I'm wide. 

And if I want to be accepted I need to be less round. 

I know I'm not alone, because like an epidemic, 

this disease spreads like fire. 

Fire, fire, burning fire, that grows into wildfires,

burning hope, burning souls, burning outsiders.

Outsiders like a girl at my school that cut her wrists

because her body was malformed.

Outsiders like her, like you, like me. 

And we're so many that sometimes I wonder

if the change should be for us. 

Maybe we are right to be malformed. 

Maybe we are not malformed at all. 

What if instead of changing our shape,

we mold society's body instead. 

Because we are outsiders in society

due to the commotion of malfunctions that determine how we function. 

 

And if the motion had to change, 

then maybe I would not be embarrassed. 

Maybe no one would be embarrased.

Because we would all be accepted,

and it would be the turning page. 

 

We should be happy with our size,

because they're just cases,

empty vases that hold the true grandeur of our souls. 

Society should accept us not by measure,

but by what values we bring to it. 

If something were to change,

if I had the power to make that change,

then I would erase all social standards,

and let no one behind in the desperate race.

The desperate race to live, to be accepted,

and to fit in with the rest. 

 

 

 

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