Insecure

You
Are
So
Insecure.

You should remove the bra and show more cleavage.
Your boobs are too small.
You should wear the short dress.
You walk too fast.
You are so insecure.

You are right,
I am insecure.
I see the awkwardness of my body
I struggle to find pants that won’t fall down every time I sit
I see the wrinkles under my eyes
And the gaps in my teeth
but wait
No, I am not insecure about those things.
I look at myself in the mirror every day and I see a wonderful creation.
My body, with all its curves and sharp turns.
My body, with its creamy chocolaty color and blemishes.
My thighs that bulge forward like I have a second butt.
The stretch marks on my hips and chest from my destabilizing years of puberty.
My big, plump lips and button nose that have been mocked over centuries.
My kinky hair reduced to a plaything that people always feel the need to touch as they please.
My small, yet wide feet that allow me to walk “too fast”…
I guess I do walk fast,
But my insecurity does not lie there either,
I just happened to have picked up father’s habits.

My insecurity lies in my hopes and aspirations:
I’m insecure about the idea of not bringing someone out of their misery,
I’m insecure about not bringing light where there’s darkness,
I’m insecure about hurting someone who has never done me wrong,
I’m insecure about letting your words turn into swords when they barely graze the surface,
I’m insecure about transforming into someone who allows material things and people’s opinion to dictate my confidence level,
I’m insecure about sex and money being all the subjects of conversation,
I am insecure about using my body to hide my insecurities.

You are right,
I am insecure.
But unless you are going to tell me that
I should let go of the fear and show more faith;
That I should wear a crystal-covered crown on my head;
That my vision is too narrow
And that I should dream bigger,
Just hush.

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