Until You Said

I wasn’t insecure about my ears
 until you told me they were small. 
Before that, they were just part of me—
 not something I thought about at all. 
Now I pull my hair around them, 
remembering what you said,
 wondering why your passing comment
 gets to stay inside my head. I wasn’t insecure about my weight 
until you called me big. 
I used to wear the clothes I liked
 without worrying how they fit. 
Now I stand in front of mirrors,
 pulling fabric from my skin,
 trying to hide the parts of me
 you taught me to question. I wasn’t insecure about my nose
 until you said it was too wide.
 I never used to turn my face
 or worry about my side.
 Now every time a camera comes out, 
I know which way to lean.
 You made me notice something
 I never thought was wrong with me. I wasn’t insecure about my forehead 
until you called me Megamind.
 Everyone laughed, so I laughed too, 
then pretended I was fine.
 But later, standing at the mirror, 
I moved my hair around,
 trying to cover up the joke
 you wouldn’t stop pointing out. I wasn’t insecure about my smile 
until you said it looked strange.
 It used to happen naturally;
 now it’s something I arrange. 
I practice smiling smaller,
 keep my lips closed when I can. 
You probably forgot your comment. 
I remember where it began. I wasn’t insecure about my laugh
 until you mocked the sound. 
Now when something’s really funny, 
I check who’s standing around. 
Sometimes I cover up my mouth.
 Sometimes I don’t laugh at all.
 I hate that being happy
 makes me feel so small. I wasn’t insecure about my voice 
until you said I talked too much.
 Now I leave my stories unfinished 
and pretend I’ve said enough.
 “Never mind,” comes out so easily,
 even when I want to speak.
 You don’t know how many sentences
 I’ve swallowed since that week. I wasn’t insecure about pictures 
until you laughed at one of mine.
 I had liked the way I looked in it.
 I thought I looked happy that time.
 But you pointed out the problems,
 and suddenly that was all I saw.
 I deleted a moment I loved
 because you found something wrong. And you said,
“I’m only joking.” 
You said,
“Don’t take it to heart.”
 But you weren’t there afterward 
when the second-guessing started. You didn’t see me change my shirt 
or take my hair back down. 
You didn’t hear me stop a laugh
 because I hated how it sounded.
 You got to make your little joke
 and move on with your day.
 I went home with words
 I couldn’t put away. I miss getting ready
 without thinking about you. 
I miss liking a picture 
before wondering if you would too. 
I miss speaking without checking 
whether everyone’s annoyed.
 I miss when my own reflection 
didn’t come with your voice. And I’m not going to pretend
 I feel confident all the time.
 Some days I still hear what you said
 and wish this face weren’t mine.
 But I’m tired of treating your opinions
 like they’re something I must prove. 
I’m tired of changing parts of me
 that never needed fixing for you. My ears don’t need your approval. 
My weight isn’t yours to discuss.
 My nose isn’t a punch line,
 and my smile shouldn’t stay shut.
 I’m allowed to wear my hair back.
 I’m allowed to laugh out loud.
 I’m allowed to be in pictures
 without picking myself apart. I wasn’t insecure
 until you said those things to me.
 And maybe I can’t forget them
 as quickly as you’d like me to. But the next time I like a picture, 
I’m going to let it stay. 
And the next time you call me a name, 
I won’t laugh to make it okay.