Thank you, but no thank you.
I don't like her
But I want to like her
Because I am supposed to.
With her Gaia complexion
And her hair so roots
She's supposed to look like me
And so be like me
Then be loved by me.
But I don't even like her
And I hate myself for it.
In reality, where I tend to live,
My skin isn't so simple
It doesn't pour over my body
Like the most beautiful waterfall
You've ever seen.
And my hair would do that
If I'd let it,
But I probably wont let it.
You show her with more courage than I have
And that is supposed to inspire me.
It does not.
My skin doesn't hug my muscles
Stronger than a mother protecting her child.
No, and it doesn't hug the "perfect" proportion
Of tenderness and warmth and care.
It hugs more realistic things.
It hugs things like stress, and anxiety, and depression.
You present her to me
With that voice.
The one that sounds like mahogany and lavender,
That one that smells of chamomile and raspberries.
I don't have that voice though,
I do have something equivalent to velvet
When relaxation is in order,
And thunderstorms when chaos ensues.
I am not taught to appreciate the deeper tones within me.
I am taught to embrace the highs,
To sound less threatening and more feminine.
They can't hate you if they don't fear you.
I hate her for only focusing on those low tones.
I hate that she can.
You show her with more courage than me,
And I am supposed to be inspired.
I am supposed to love her
And, better yet, want to be her,
Want to live in her skin,
Then realize that I do.
But since she doesn't reflect the part of me
That is the reason I am put down
And have confidence in that,
I dislike her without knowing much of her.
You showed her to me a few times
In various lights
And she is too stark,
Too rough and robotic
Not nearly frantic enough to even be alive.
I know all I need to know
About what you have to show me,
And I don't like her.