I hate you.
I hate everything about you.
Your skin tone, your size, all your little details.

Trust me when I say that I’ve tried to accept you so many times, but I just can’t.
I can’t keep fooling myself.

To my hair: I’ve always hated you, and when I tried to love you, I failed. You’re coarse, brittle, and ugly.
To my eyes: You’re empty.
To my lips: He looked the other way and refused to kiss you.
To my breasts: I hate you the most. You’re big and I don’t like you. Yes, I kid around when someone makes a comment about you, but I hate how people look at you. I hate how you jiggle when I walk, and how saggy you are at home. I hate that you make people make remarks about you. I hate that. I wish you were smaller.
To my stomach: You’re monstrous, and I’ve lost so many opportunities because of you. You make me hate my life and the way I look when I see you in the mirror.
To my belly: You’re big and you bother me.
To my legs: If you’d just stop building muscle like men’s legs, I wouldn’t have to stop exercising.
To my body hair: You’re so noticeable and exhausting.
To my body: I hate you and I want to change the way you look.