Stare back at the person that gives you hell. Look her in the eyes, allow yourself to question every bit of her as she is the one you've been fighting with for years. Look at those gangling arms and small tits. Legs that belong to a super model but with the upper body of a 16 year old. Her innocent face makes me laugh at the proud demeanor she puts on. We all know the truth. You are as weak as you look.
Every fiber of you isn't worthy of making those decisions. Decisions that move you to a place where you don't belong. Look around, why are you here? Rounds of hate, molecules divided, stone cold suitcase full of ashes that were and buds of what will be. Cry not little girl, this realm will soon be yours.
Is that insecurity making your skin crawl or are you afraid that others will know that you too have hate, judgement and are after all imperfect. Avoid what's real and drown in the past and you will soon find what your life may need.
Perhaps they are right, you are a shitty friend, person and human. Go ahead and feel it in your stomach and heart. Let it swarm to your feet and fingers. Let it seep into your head and disintegrate all that allows you to cross the line. Short stop, full of shit, stunted bipolar degenerate with nowhere to go. The sun is not yours, nor does the moon care.
Picket fence strewn with white girl hair bows. Barbie with a Masters dusted with lululemon. Ripened estrogen from tit to tit combined with french tipped toes and a voice that puts the cherry on top. No, you mut. That's not you.
Fighting, listening and punching the voice that we know all too well. Since Kindergarten, First Grade or Second. The moment you discovered what it should mean to be a girl. The moment you realized that sticking up for yourself wasn't your style. The moment you allowed your wanderer to be seen as naive. Struggling to finally realize that the one staring back at you, is you.
Peel back the scars and dust off the dirt. What's made of your core may not waver. Look at her again. Her youthful shell is not an indication of what she has not experienced. Those arms will strike far, protecting for what strikes back. Her legs are strong and will stride all the way to new beginnings.
Forget the hair and storybook lifestyle. Disney was wrong and I'm ready to reconcile with the woman I became. Watch each vivacious muscle. They are truly yours. Fill the air with imperfection and stand in the front where you can see her clearly. Finally the mirror tells you the truth.
Feel every movement. Jab his good name in the throat. Cross into the faces that judged you. Bob to the right where you left her and hook right into what's yours. Bob to the left and miss the backlash and hook left into every weak side you once had. Uppercut into the gut of every self doubt that destroyed your peace.
Every strand of curly hair ripens more with every drip of sweat and it is beautiful. Every drip of sweat releases the facade that was once needed to stay dry. She is not perfect but she is real. Her hips may be crooked and her breasts may be small but she paints her world more perfectly with them as she let's herself finally be. Every strike of force vibrates into her feet as she becomes more grounded. Allowing the force to travel through her veins and into her toes only to hit the ground and travel back to the place that started it all. She then realizes as she looks at the Guerrero looking back at her, that it was her all along that made her strong.