My skin is my own worst enemy.
It hangs loosely, mockingly over my bones, serving as a constant reminder of the mistakes I made in my youth. No matter how much I have grown and learned and lost, it is uncompromising. It sticks around like a once welcome house guest that has long outworn its welcome.
My skin has held me back for years. Even as the fat fell away and I grew confident in my new shape, it has a grasp on me. It's kept me from intimacy. And tank tops. It's removed me from comfort and made me feel so unloveable. It's made even the most simple movements feel like a great war of self-loathing.
I don't want to be trapped inside this prison, but I am sure I have cursed myself to a life sentence. I can only hope that I learn to face this with courage as I try to be continually honest with others about the dark cloud destroying my otherwise infallible joy.
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