I’M TIRED OF THIS BODY

I look down at my thighs. I can’t. They disgust me, but I can’t look anywhere else. I’m on the edge of my bathtub. My eyes are stinging but the tears won’t stop rolling down my cheeks. I hate how I feel. I hate myself. If I can’t be beautiful then what’s the point of living? Why am I not a beautiful girl? A normal girl? I could give anything to have smaller thighs, longer legs, clearer skin.

My nails are clawing at my wrists now, I need to feel something else other than self-disgust. I slowly sink to the floor with the echoes of me crying as a soundtrack to the funeral of my self-worth. The side of my face is on the cold floor, my tears are dripping onto the freezing tiles. I close my eyes, so I can forget how I look. I am tired of this body.

I remember that night, when he touched me. I couldn’t bear it. A child, I was a child. And I still haven’t forgotten. The stares, the following me home. Why do men way older want me? Want this? What do they see that guys my age don’t?

I remember what boys my age have said to me. I’ve been an elephant, I’ve been so ugly I should be dead. I’ve been the most disgusting thing they’ve ever seen. I am the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.

I stand up. I look in the mirror. My eyes are puffy, red and swollen. It suits me. Sadness and self-hate suit me. It’s pathetic. I can feel every inch of my skin acutely. There’s no way this is my body. I wasn’t meant to get this one. The feeling of my thighs touching makes me sick. My back rolls make my skin crawl. The flab that is my stomach, makes me want to gag.I hold onto the sink in front of the mirror and stare at my face. Dull brown eyes, round face, non-existent jawline. I’m appalled. I hate that people have to stare at me the whole of my life. I’m sorry that they have to see my face.

I’m not crying anymore. Too disgusted to cry. I would never wish this feeling on anyone. I wonder how many of us are there? How many of us watch their bodies? Observe themselves live? Feel out of place in their own meat sacks? Yearn to be called beautiful?

I yearn to take photos one day and plaster all over my wall. Take photos, look at them and say “I look good”. I close my eyes. Take my hands off the sink and step away from it. I’m shaking. The bathroom door is closed but I can still hear my dad snoring from across the hall. Opening the creaking door slowly, I glide out and slip into my room. Make sure to turn off the lights as I get dressed in my pyjamas. My bed feels inviting. My bed means refuge from thinking. I lay my head on my tear stained pillow and drift into sleep, preparing to cry my eyeballs out and hate myself more tomorrow.

Song:

Body - Mother Mother