self-esteem
a poem
There’s a certain segment of the population that is socialized to be quite… subpar.
Mediocre.
Average at best.
Praised for minimal effort and crumbs of decency.
Beating the sensitivity from their bodies while fondling and ogling the flesh of others. They make themselves inhuman and in response, they make me object.
Trophy.
A saccharine treat accessorizing their arm.
A low calorie garnish— decorative, yet, unsubstantial.
I find myself growing impatient with this little god.
I was told if I fasted, visited my altar in every reflection, and rendered my body a vessel for His glory, then I would be saved.
But this god is prodigal and imprecise.
Gluttonous off my grief while I lie here, weak: a measly rind.
softly,
dev<3
Your care with each line is sharp, evident, growing in meaning within me each line I re-read… let me faint real quick
Really appreciating the duality of object in line 5