Branded upon my settling skin are the empty words and thoughts of others, wrapping barbed wire throughout my soul.
“Victoria Secret Model” is etched into my chest from 2017. “Gazelle” is scribbled along my feminine thighs, while “stick thin and fast metabolism” is burned into the loose skin of my stomach, crookedly stretching thanks to maturity. Meanwhile, withstanding layers of heavy concealer, “beautiful” is freckled on the fair skin of my face . Formerly harmless words, now stain my flesh, anchor my curves, and illustrate such a fabricated image of myself.
Each longing look in the mirror floods my mind with desperate thoughts igniting an envious fire, bringing my blood to a boil. A subjective reflection of gray skin, loose and lacking pigment at odds with what others see. Wire thin hair missing the liveliness it once held before hair salons translated to therapy. Legs too thick, teeth not white enough for societal standards, and scars that dot my body’s canvas. Naked I stand, but appear clothed in hollow words and memories as I glance over the surface of my unfitting figure.
Cloaked by fraudulent flaws that scheme my mind into unworthiness. Words that tell my old story. Skin that won’t surrender tired memories, and scars that remind me of my careless, younger courage. My identity feels interlaced into each imperfection, but now paradoxical from the definitions of other’s. Not even clothing can bury these lies I continue to distance myself from because my seeded soul is still heavily draped in them.
12/03/2021 Here’s to undressing my appearance.
1 a.m on a Friday night, I just got back from a house complete with people who are extras in my story. Tables blemished with beer stains, floors gripping my feet from old spillage, and paraphernalia scattering every inch. Typically not my scene anymore. But as I walk through the door of my apartment, welcomed by warmth and the soft glow of Christmas lights strung along my ceiling, I gravitate to my mirror. Taking a deep breath, and forcing a reassuring smile, I pull my fingers to the buttons of my jeans, and then the zipper. The thick fabric puddles around my ankles leaving me in a t- shirt and white underwear. Next, lead by a weighted inhale, my hands slide to grasp the dreadful edges of the cotton hiding my mid-drift, take it off, and close my eyes; but not this time.
I stare at the skin morphed by my mirror, hesitantly taking it in part by part. Erasing the stories that no longer suit me, and studying the now bare canvas in front of me. Naked, and this time not blanketed by defining words. Naked and cold, but a bearable chill that comforts me. The ground beneath my feet grounding me again, the chill sweeping through my pores oozing into my veins, and a heavy sensational rush of rebirth.
The scars on my ankles now beg me to retrieve my old daring self. The muscles in my thighs crave a long awaited exploration to parade their copious amounts of renewed strength. The loose skin on my stomach awaits shared laughs and midnight snacks with friends. My tangled hair, unfortunately already booking my next salon appointment, and my teeth smiling bigger than ever as the smile across my face is magnetized by the new woman standing in front of me.