A porcelain sculpture, crooked.
This is what I see, why people see otherwise, I cannot fathom.
A spine like an ancient street sign,
doctor told me “she’s grown out nicely, don’t you think?”
Am I a portrait on display
or am I a martyr for criticism, for hate?
I stand before myself,
the figure who’s supposed to be me inspects
every inch of me, sayin’
that the breasts are far too small, should be fuller, at least twice as large.
The stomach, well-shaped but pudgy,
the scars that mark my body speak for the critic standing before me
Older men craning their necks through their passing, broken-down pickup trucks.
Childhood friends pinching, asking what is it that I eat,
and why can’t they be like me?
But they are so different from me.
Can’t accept their beautiful curves,
hips, thighs, butts, breasts, all the lusciousness I wish I had.
Beauty is multi-faceted,
there is no one definition.
The plasticized, impossibly supple bodies
exist only in make-believe.
The bulbous lips, anorexic cheeks, painted faces.
Perfect definitions of fake, used solely to sell.
My long locks, chopped to a pixie crop,
my craving for the death of repetition.
Curves, the way which my back arches,
resemblances of the comfort I feel within my own skin.
This is art. This is beauty.
Anita Wota is a 2010 GirlSpeak editor.
