My body is not here for your mold,
to fit or break.
A fine piece of art, sculpted for vanity and pleasure;
just not yours.
Built from dirt and stone, blood and tissue,
and a foundation that grows like roots.
Battered by hail, wind, and humanity.
Your pride in my delicacy neglects the storms I've weathered.
Your idea of beauty, devoid of empathy, effort, or efficacy
is a joke.
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