I really don't want to leave the house. Everyone is thinner and prettier and happier than I am.
Everyone else is more comfortable in their own skin.
Everyone else is perfect.
Even the ugly people.
Perfect.
Not me.
I don't even know what it's like to look in the mirror and think "I look good." I don't know what it's like to walk out of the house and not even think about your clothes, hair, and makeup.
I can never just leave on a whim. I always have to get ready.
It's painful. I meticulously coat each eyelash with mascara.
Eyeliner- sometimes not.
Concealer.
Chapstick. Lipgloss. Leave-in conditioner for my hair.
Oil blotting things. I know they're gross.
Then, I feel better. A more mellow self-hatred.
Seriously, people take for granted being able to fucking like scratch their nose without worrying about their skin turning red.
Nothing about me is working. Nothing fits right.
Some imperfections are beautiful. Love handles on skinny girls. Small chests. Curly hair that is glamorously untameable.
Mine aren't beautiful. Just imperfect. Nothing fits.
Nothing fits.
Nothing fits.
And no matter how hard I try, nothing sticks.
I can't even wear a t-shirt and jeans. Always a sweater. Sweatshirt. Jacket. Cover it all up. Better that they see no shape at all than see the shape I really am.
"You look really good,"
The first person other than Henry to really get through to me.
"You're beautiful,"
I get it all the time. I only believe it when Henry says it.
Little things make me so insecure. Little things that don't even matter.
I'm getting better at hiding it, though.
Actually, I'm great at hiding it.
Recently, I've become the life of the party.
No one suspects a thing.
Good. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Everyone else is more comfortable in their own skin.
Everyone else is perfect.
Even the ugly people.
Perfect.
Not me.
I don't even know what it's like to look in the mirror and think "I look good." I don't know what it's like to walk out of the house and not even think about your clothes, hair, and makeup.
I can never just leave on a whim. I always have to get ready.
It's painful. I meticulously coat each eyelash with mascara.
Eyeliner- sometimes not.
Concealer.
Chapstick. Lipgloss. Leave-in conditioner for my hair.
Oil blotting things. I know they're gross.
Then, I feel better. A more mellow self-hatred.
Seriously, people take for granted being able to fucking like scratch their nose without worrying about their skin turning red.
Nothing about me is working. Nothing fits right.
Some imperfections are beautiful. Love handles on skinny girls. Small chests. Curly hair that is glamorously untameable.
Mine aren't beautiful. Just imperfect. Nothing fits.
Nothing fits.
Nothing fits.
And no matter how hard I try, nothing sticks.
I can't even wear a t-shirt and jeans. Always a sweater. Sweatshirt. Jacket. Cover it all up. Better that they see no shape at all than see the shape I really am.
"You look really good,"
The first person other than Henry to really get through to me.
"You're beautiful,"
I get it all the time. I only believe it when Henry says it.
Little things make me so insecure. Little things that don't even matter.
I'm getting better at hiding it, though.
Actually, I'm great at hiding it.
Recently, I've become the life of the party.
No one suspects a thing.
Good. I wouldn't have it any other way.
musical_poet:
you ARE beautiful tho