There’s a chance you remember
your third-grade teacher confronting your Mom
about how you sat scowling all class,
arms crossed in feigned disrespect
while you pled ignorance, not letting on
the melancholy was pretence,
your best affectation
of being handsome.
And there’s the same chance
you’re still heartbroken wondering
why that nine-year-old felt ugly
behind the most unadulterated smile.
Maybe you spent the next two decades
at a mirror turning left and right, deciding
whether you’d be beautiful later
or if you already missed your chance.
You might have asked each of your partners
to pinpoint the parts of your body
they liked least so you’d have
a companion in self-hate
or you might have questioned
if your circulatory system existed only
to pulse warmth through fingertips
into the side of a cold drink.
You could have dreamt of burning
every thread in your closet as if
the ill-fitting shirts themselves
were the obstacle
or dreamt instead of silencing
the inadvertent words and thoughts
that trample you like heavy boots
on seedling grass.
You may exist in the space between
your body’s unforgiving catalogue
of past decisions and the contours
of who you’ll be next
but you might still bet the odds
that this physical contest
can be won. You might,
if you’re anything like me.