Refusing My Skin

I look at the picture, perhaps expecting someone, something else. I look at the picture hoping that he must have been really wrong; that indeed my nose is aquiline. I then search my skin to confirm that—please—this was flawless stuff, dark and delicious type of thing. In fact I am excited to take the picture up in my hands, and aha!, brandish it there on Whatsapp, and show the world what they truly should be seeing. I will convince myself that Humphrey must have ignored me for no truly objective reason, that it must have been that girl being too available after all, and of course, even if I tried, I could not possibly be that available.

I look at my pen and paper and laugh as I happily decide to lie. I will lie! I will pretend to be worried, preoccupied, by things other than my skin and self. Because, you see, I am to be above these things, these twelve-year-old preoccupations. I can even see Peter's head in that annoying, pointed, stiff, backwards angle of mockery-amusement-pity. I want to shake him and tell him to pour his truth out. To say that surely, I am growing too slowly. Now I must be worried about something bigger, like how to make money, how to fix the world, time is running.

Nonetheless, I look at my life, and last Saturday, and I realize I am moving slowly into myself. I am finally saying that, no no, I have not been fine with this skin, this nose, this body. There is a problem here. I am different.

But now I have also decided that I will not accept that I cannot love myself, because I have not been given a license to do so by the magazines. I will look at the mirror and decide that perhaps I will dare to call this art, beautiful and worthy. I am lovable this way. I will call out my most disgustings and declare ownership over them.

I am magic on a mission. I know where I am from, and perhaps a bit of where I am going. I am fine.

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