One, i was one, Just when my little toes were learning to stand on this rough cold soil, I heard them whisper, She's too dark, isn't she? I couldn't speak, but I heard you say, While my mother looked at me like I was the fairest snowflake, and feared, I would melt soon in the furnace of your definitions.
Three, I was, three When you all bought me dolls, Dolls with arms and legs moulded in perfection, Hair all straight, some in pleats, Nose pointed like my pencil tips, Eyes drawn in black and blue, Standing in front of the mirror, I couldn't justify, why my father called me doll, I didn't look like them, Your definitions, couldn't define me, yet again.
Five, six, seven, I was then eleven. Still wondering why Sunsilk didn't make my hair look like the picture on TV, Why won't mother let me use one of those magic cremes, put on hoardings on my way to school, when I felt the desperate urge to become pretty.
Fifteen, I was fifteen, When I started secluding myself from the prettier class, They said I should better study and not groom, I didn't belong to their room.
Seventeen, Still deficit of a definition, Just a wicked poor girl, Out of fashion, out of trends in, out of every box they lived, I heard then, 1D sing, to a girl, all that I wanted to listen, Yet again, in front of the mirror, Was I, the girl, they said, who looked beautiful?
Nineteen, I'm nineteen, Disgusted by magazines, I tell them their definitions don't matter, But I still struggle to fix the spots on my dermis, And with each failed attempt, I shatter. They say my tummy isn't pretty, legs too heavy, So I starve , Alas! clavicle still Buried deep, So I'll starve a bit more, To wake up, a little thin,to slip into the box of their definitions, I need.