Why Must I Fear Me?

A requiem to standards that simply must shatter.

Why do you assume that I fear me?

Why do you shudder as I run my hand across the lines on my legs that appeared so I may stand taller than I used to be? Why would I fear those lines? They made me.

Why have you sat wide-eyed as I sighed because there were pieces of me I didn’t believe I needed to hide? Those pieces are just an extension, you see. I guess you really do think I should be scared of me.

My fingers swerve over every curve. Every bumpy, lumpy square-inch serves a reminder of how I am blissful and free. Still, you deny the bumps’ existence… are you scared of me?

If you believe I must fear me, perhaps it’s you that’s afraid.

This is my body, it’s perfectly made.

It has lines and colours, and lumps to the nines. All of those things: perfectly fine.

A body is a body, whomever’s body it be. I truly hope you don’t fear you, as I have never feared me.

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