"WHEN YOUR THERAPIST ASKS HOW YOU LEARNED
TO HATE YOURSELF
blame the sixth grade and your sagging bib of a double chin.
blame the plus-size section of Limited Too. blame the bleachers;
the plus-size section of gym class. blame the forbidden
two piece swimsuits reserved for dandelion girls, thin as stems.
blame your classmates with names like Natalie or Ashley or Casimere
for ogling at your hot air balloon cheeks, laughing like paper cuts.
blame the first time you strutted downstairs in lip gloss
and a short dress in seventh grade, the day your parents choked
on their dark roasts and marched you back to your room
for becoming too much
of the daughter you thought they wanted.
blame GL magazine for the articles you memorized like bible
verses of everything you should change about yourself.
blame your lucky brother and his paddle-like hands.
blame the hours you spent watching your sister
in front of the mirror, learning how to edit yourself.
blame the christmas you unwrapped a makeup palette
and saw a tool kit. blame the dead bouquet of cool, older girls
you envied in the bathroom, copying and pasting perfection
onto their faces. blame yourself for keeping pretty like a promise.
blame everyone else who called you pretty like a contract.
blame the boys who called you beautiful, then asked if you were sick
the one day you found enough courage to leave the house mascara-less.
blame the winky-faces a man like a hound texted you for your
breasts. blame your father for wanting to give you the same world
he is hiding you from. blame the year you were the only
cigarette in a carton of addicts. blame your mother
for not knowing how to love a burning girl.
blame the dress codes, the pinched asses, the snapped bra straps,
the yanked ponytails. blame the lessons you learned without trying.
blame every television screen and number one hit and off-hand
comment that made you believe you were disposable. blame
the splinters of womanhood lodged into your side. blame this play
you never tried out for, this script you don’t remember memorizing
but somehow still know every line."
— WHEN YOUR THERAPIST ASKS HOW YOU LEARNED TO HATE YOURSELF, by Blythe Baird