Girls at my school made fun of
my frizzy, dirty-blonde hair.
They called me “hippo”
and “thunder thighs.”
They teased me for my acne-scarred face,
and laughed at my crooked teeth.
But I know it’s not me that’s messed up.
It’s not even them.
It’s society.

The boys at school know
I’m desperate for love.
They tell me I’m as beautiful as a model.
I start to believe it.
They use my body.
Then they break my heart.
But I know it’s not me that’s messed up.
It’s not even them.
It’s society.

The smiling women on magazines
and billboards
look so happy.
But after the photoshoot
they see the air-brushed and photoshopped
versions of themselves
and wonder why they weren’t good enough.
They feel it too.
It’s not them that’s messed up.
It’s society.