And in a Moment, We Will See Why Love Does Not Exist For a Woman Like Me

Maybe my anger will subside should I take a moment to breathe. Right now, I am unsure what has triggered me. What have I done? Or, the world that melts around me? I'm so confused. And I'm very upset. I dislike who I am and the way I navigate myself. I hate how I feel--and how I can't quite understand any of it. Nothing makes sense. Not even a little bit.

I creep in the shadows and mindlessly watch myself. I wake unearthly. I am simply not beautiful enough. I will never be enough for the sun to choose to kiss, or the wind to dare caress, and I am not enough for the birds to sing. I refuse to let myself live. Because I shouldn't be this way. I shouldn't look like this. I should be skinnier, and my skin should be clear. I should know how to do my hair better--and I should wear pretty clothes. But why bother dressing a body like this?

You can drench a pig in gold. In the end, it is still a pig. I feel like my "beauty", when I am adored, is a mockery to those who hold its truth. I will never be granted a handler. But would the gold be worth any less? To myself, I am both the greatest mystery and harshest critic. How can I understand who I truly am behind such pain and uncertainty? Behind so much self hatred and personal disdain?

I look in the mirror and hate what I see. In fact, I can force myself to smile every day, but when facing myself, even my facade breaks. I can't even fake it. I can't accept it. I don't think my mother, or anyone else, expected me to turn out this way. She wouldn't admit it if you asked, but I know she wishes I'd grown up a bit prettier. She always valued looks growing up--weight, at least--and I should have listened. I remember her telling me, "You can miss a few meals" when I'd say I was hungry. At the time, I felt it cruel. And to a child, my stance remains. As a parent it was her job to reroute and regulate. I was not in control of what came in and out of our home--and I was not in charge of the meals. She can hate me for ending up this way, but it was not a practice I started alone. None of us are skinny. Not a single one. But as I am, at this age, right now, yes, I can, miss a few meals. I can afford to miss plenty. But instead of drying my tears, I eat them, and now I'm out of control.

I feel just as bad as I look. Who could truly love a woman like me? Perhaps in a moment, briefly plausible--but there is no longevity in the sky for a man and me. And this epiphany hurts, because for once, again, I am in love. When you rid a man of what they unconsciously strive for--a beautiful woman that they can show off--then you'd better have something more to offer. Maybe you can teach him things in areas that he's lacking, or you've got your shit together, in a way. Own home, own car--a job. Something. You have something. When you don't have something, and you aren't even pretty enough to hang on his arm, what are you there for?