My skin isn’t soft and smooth like the other girls;
it’s covered in hair, bumps, and scars.
It isn’t glowing from a mellow highlight;
it’s shinning from the oil that drips around my pores.
I wish I was like other girls.
I wish my skin was perfect and well cared for.
Oh, how my epidermis screams in agony;
healing over every mistake.
Why is my skin bleeding and mourning in pain,
by the pain that I apply to my body;
but theirs, glistening from the kindness that they apply to theirs.
I wish I was like other girls.
I wish my mind didn’t appear on my skin.
I wish I could hide my introspection away;
just the way they could.
But I cannot be those other girls,
and I will not try to be.
I will embrace the way my skin leaks its oils and heals my slips.
Because I am coping with what way I know;
whilst they cope with what they know.
Our skin compares, showing different textures and emotions;
though both are no different.
But I will never accept the way I am, because I still wish,
I was like other girls.