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An add on to a self-conscious younger poem

I have always lived repeating the motto in my head, “prove them wrong”

I think without that phrase I would be dead at this point

Nothing to motivate me

Unfortunately something genuinely helpful manifested itself into a poisonous body image I had hoped for myself

Truly believing the only way to make all those who didn’t believe in me feel wrong and ask for my forgiveness was to fit society’s perfect body image

It did not matter what I created

It did not matter what I said

It did not matter what I felt

If I did not have the body as something like the cover to my memoir, the stories would be meaningless

There would be no pull to attract the general audience

I would be another freak who found art as an outlet

But if I was hot

Maybe then I could act human and silly

People would think I was such an extraordinary human being

A goal that they themselves could strive for

A goal that I could tell everyone is accomplishable

A goal that I have yet to accomplish

A goal that I will always feel worthless unless accomplishing

A goal that will always knock on my door when I have created beauty

When I have placed my thumbprint on a piece of art, this self-consciousness revives itself from the grave I tried to bury it in middle school and spreads through my entire body

Placing all artistic priorities on hold while I sweat off the calories and try to look like how I’m supposed to

Put the pen down so I can carve out my muscles

Sacrifice a moment of truth and therapy for self-hatred disguised as happiness as I am improving

Maybe one day I will learn the way for these two activities to exist in harmony; God knows others have

But until then I will keep this fear and sickness under wraps

Placed in the graveyard that is inhabited by zombies rather than dead memories

Hoping that no one sees this

For my biggest fear is someone who looks up to me sees this fear as well and begins to carry it as well

Thus I am only helping in spreading this sickness generation to generation

Poisoning the confidence of those younger than me

Just so I can feel a little less isolated and alone

But what sort of community is that?

A village of scared and self-hating individuals

Mirrors have the highest murder rate of anyone in the village

And I, the mayor, still have my palace plastered with mirrors

In hopes that one day I will wake up and achieve the unreachable standards

That I will look like him or her or them

And can finally




Maybe in saying all this

Maybe in putting this somewhere 

Someone will see it and think of me as more human

Maybe make them understand what they’re feeling is human

That we’re all little gray blobs freaking out because we haven’t figured it out

But no one has it figured out

And so there may not be a grand takeaway, just that

Your blob is just as blobby as mine, as theirs

And it will change, always

So for right now let yourself blob

You deserve it

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