What makes me tick

are these sick, unrealistic expectations

of women.

“It’s what’s inside that counts.”

Well, how the fuck am I supposed to believe that

when my worth is determined by my appearance?

How am I supposed to believe that

when the women the media considers beautiful

look nothing like me?

I’m sorry my skin isn’t white.

I’m sorry that I’m flat as a board.

I’m sorry for my stretch marks, my pimples, my bony frame.

Actually, no, I’m not.

I shouldn’t be ashamed

for looking like a human being.

And what’s sad is that no woman is the same,

but magazines are trying to enforce a standard.

And instead of celebrating our differences,

we try desperately to conform.

We go on crash diets, we lament if dresses make us look fat,

we relax our springy curls, we rub whitening lotion onto our skin.

We cry ourselves to sleep at night, wishing we didn’t look like this,

wishing our Creator gave us that instead of this,

wishing our genetics would’ve been more gracious.

We don’t realize that no woman is perfect,

not even the celebrities on covers.

Graphic artists just photoshopped the humanness out of them

because humans are fundamentally flawed.

You know, it wasn’t until recently that I felt beautiful.

And maybe I’m not “aesthetically pleasing” to the eye,

but I think that beauty is mental

and, as cliché as it sounds,

beauty comes from within

because as long as you love yourself—

every zit and crater, every roll of fat and bony finger,

every imperfection that you want to hide from the world—

I think everything will fall into place.

And then it won’t matter what the hell’s on your face,

so long it's with a smile.