What is this illusion of perfect beauty
That we cling to with such desperation?
Why is it that what we are
Is deemed less than the imaginings of what we
The joy in my smile is not diminished
By teeth which don’t lie straight.
Nor do the blemishes that scatter my skin
Like fallen constellations
Lessen the softness of its touch,
Or its tingling response to that of another.
My eyes see no less clearly
For the shadows and lines around them.
My body still revels in the freedom of movement
Despite its extra pounds.
And why should my curves be limited
By externally dictated measurements?
Do you tell the Earth to be less round?
Did nature not carve me as well as it?
Stand down your armies of criticism.
Lay aside your barbed words
And the veiled judgement behind your photoshopped gaze.
The idea of perfection you so highly regard
So let me be
In my glorious [Im]Perfection
And allow yourself to be