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

And smooth.

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.