Perception

Some people seem born 

with the ability to love themselves. 

Their curves and their edges, 

their smile and their ears. They wear

their skin like a designer dress, 

confident and proud. They know

who they are, and they love

how they look. These people 

are aliens to me. Mystics, who have

discovered a place I can't go;

who speak a language I can't speak, 

no matter how many lessons I take. 

Do these people not feel the crushing

sense of doubt? Not pretty enough,

not thin enough. Not good enough.

They weave in and out

of conversation and relationships

while I fight the traffic on the freeway.

They touch each other the way I want 

to touch another, if I didn't always worry

about everything. Anything. If I could

just be. Free. Like they seem to be.