I never once worried about what I looked like in kindergarten, I never even thought about it until maybe the sixth grade
I had the worst fashion taste imaginable, but it didn’t matter to me
I had not one care in the world over what anyone else thought about my mismatched prints
I only wore what was comfortable to me
In the fifth grade I gave blue eyeshadow a try, while that was a mistake, it did not matter
My yearbook photo may have been one of the most atrocious I have ever laid eyes on
But now I don’t even take them
I no longer want to be remembered
Or embarrassed of the things I may later regret
At what age did we begin to care so much that we stopped living?
So afraid of what others think
We hide behind a false image of what we think should make us happy
We do things just to seek the approval of others, but why do any of them matter?
Marilyn Monroe once said “Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are.”
The desire to be immaculate is overwhelming
The pressure is like a ship caught in a storm
Becoming engulfed in a torrent of waves
The true meaning is lost and drowning seems inevitable
But the word imperfect is not as scary as believed
The only meaning that matters to most of us is the one that says you are not perfect, faulty or incomplete.
We feel so much pain in that word
An aching in your chest so great that you fall
A flower weighed down by dozens of raindrops
We are all incomplete
Works in progress
Paintings that take years to develop
Revealing their beauty within time
Evolving constantly
I am not the same person I was six months ago
A butterfly only emerges from its cocoon once
Beautifully different with bright colors and the ability to fly
But we do it many times
There is no limit to the amount we can change
A fading sky with radiant colors
Is not the same the next day
True perfection does not exist in nature
Imperfection is found in everything
The prettiest rose has petals that are different sizes
Trees shed their leaves and are bare for months at a time
Even the sky itself turns gray
But we don’t consider these things to be ugly
We are our own worst critics
Taking years of what others have said
Weaving the harsh words together
In our minds
Creating the image that we see in the mirror
Shattering fractured hearts
But the truth is, if we saw ourselves in passing
On the street
We wouldn’t recognized who we saw
The image we have of what we look like
Is more distorted than an image through a kaleidoscope
Comparing yourself to other people
Hiding yourself away
Is a waste of who you are
And who you could be
So why does loving ourselves have to be so hard?
-By Madison Ramsey, Virginia
