Do I not meet your standards of perfection?
Does my look not fit into the perfect idealization your society has?
Not small enough, not large enough, not sculpted right, not clean enough, not dirties enough.
I do not fit your mold.
Who does?
How hard must we work to produce your perfect shape?
Choose your words to drag me down.
Either way you shall fail.
My genes are the result of my ancestors not just surviving in a complexed world but thriving.
I am the result of what was given to me, of those who were capable of my production. Every inch of my DNA is a work of art with its own perfections and defects.
I am genetically defective, but it does not make me weak. It brings me my strength.
I am proud of my faults.