The following poem centres around the idea of body image. It also focusses on an individual’s personal definition of beauty. It explores the struggles young women often go through–though this is an issue that affects both males and females–when it comes to trying to attain the beauty standards that have been laid out before them. Whether these standards come from the influence of peers, the media, or one’s own perception of self, pain often accompanies the desire to be beautiful. That’s what this piece is about.
I’ve been wanting to write a piece about beauty and body image for a long time, but I’d been struggling to find the right words. It wasn’t until a few days ago, actually, as I was skimming through one of my journals, that I found a source of inspiration. It was a one-liner that read, “Sixth grade: the year I learned to hate myself.” I’d written this a couple of months ago in my creative writing class when we were told to write from the perspective of our past selves. This line was written in response to this prompt and was inspired by my junior high, sixth-grade self–a version of me that really struggled with her body image. Thus, a poem was born. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
-The Girl with the Purple Soul
When I was eleven,
the Popular Girls in my class told me
that if I wanted to get a boy to like me,
I had to be pretty.
So I traded my sweatpants in
for a pair of jeans and a mini skirt,
wore my hair down
instead of up in a ponytail,
brushed my lids with
dark blue eyeshadow–
all in an attempt to be Beautiful.
I was in the Sixth Grade then.
I should have been playing with dolls
and jumping rope.
Because that’s what little girls
are supposed to do.
Because little girls aren’t supposed
to play with flat irons
or read Teen Vogue
for the latest Beauty Hacks
when they’re in the Sixth Grade.
Sixth Grade.
It’s a year I’ll never forget.
Because that was the year I started caring about appearances.
That was the year I learned to hate myself.
***
I spend an hour and a half on my makeup
every morning,
a tedious routine of
Moisturize, Foundation, Powder
to cover up the acne on my forehead
and the dark circles under my eyes.
But no–we’re not done yet because there’s still
Blush, Gloss, Liner
to bring colour
to this blank complexion.
And once I’ve put my face on,
well, hey, I don’t look so bad.
I look OK,
maybe even decent.
But then I get to school
and they’ve ruined it because
“You have lipstick on your teeth.”
and
“Your mascara is clumpy.”
Defeat.
But the next day I try harder.
So hard that I
burn my hand on the curling wand
when I go to do my hair.
So hard that I
subject myself to the torture of wearing
high-heels that nip at my ankles
and blister my heels.
But I remind myself that
five-foot-three means I’m below average
and below average isn’t Beauty.
And I guess it’s true what they say,
that Beauty is Pain.
But there seems to be a
little bit too much ouch!
and not enough pretty
I am not Beautiful.
I
I…
I do not know what I am.
All I know is that I
can’t bear looking at myself.
Not in mirror, and I
avoid cameras at all costs–
the camera adds ten pounds,
doesn’t it?
Yes…
But only when you’re
fat.
Because the other girls look just fine,
(Better than Fine),
in their Instagram selfies.
With their plump lips,
porcelain skin
and petite noses.
I’ve never liked my nose,
how it’s always seemed
too big for my face.
But maybe I’ve never really
liked anything about myself.
My parents tell me I’m delusional,
and my friends think I’m ridiculous
for believing this.
“You’re beautiful.
Stop putting yourself down.”
But I can’t help but think
that they are all lying to me
because sometimes you have to lie
to spare someone the heartache.
Because they wouldn’t be very good people
if they admitted it, if they said,
“You’re right, you’re not Beautiful.”
I am not Beautiful.
These are the thoughts
that tear me apart,
pounding my self-esteem into
dust, into non-existence.
But did it ever exist in the first place?
I try to remember
when this all started.
I count in my head.
Five years.
Five years…
Five years later, and I’m
still trying to be Beautiful.
I’ve given my
blood and sweat.
I’ve given my tears,
tears that make
the mascara run down my cheeks.
Tears–
because I hate feeling like this.
I hate feeling so…
Ugly.
***
When I was eleven,
I was determined to be Beautiful.
Because that was the only way
to get a boy to like me,
They told me.
But looking back now,
maybe it was about more than
just a boy.
Because to be Beautiful was
(is) to matter.
I wanted to matter.
So I decided that I needed
to change.
And that’s what I did.
Changed my clothes,
and my hair.
My face…
That’s why I played
with flat irons instead of dolls,
why I read Teen Vogue
instead of jumping rope.
Because I thought these things
would help make me Beautiful.
But they say that Beauty always
comes with a price, doesn’t it?
And my price?
My price was my childhood.
Because I never gave myself the
chance to be a little girl,
never gave myself the chance
to be a sixth-grader.
The Sixth Grade…
It’s a year I’ll never forget.
Because that was the year I started caring about appearances.
That was the year I learned to hate myself.
A haunting exploration of body image, this is the song I often listened to while working on this piece. All the images incorporated into this post are also related to the singer herself–Melanie Martinez.
Image sources: https://67.media.tumblr.com/bf269f78d1f088aeed702c5d9011eb88/tumblr_o4yk03hQIw1vq2zy7o1_540
https://images.rapgenius.com/a83bc156d2a4abd78f8843a0a8767de1.534x532x1
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ba/58/7c/ba587c3453199e64419a9b0bf08ffa58
