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Sometimes, I dare ask the question of how do people feel at home in their body
Don't they hate the flaws peeking underneath skins —staining what's supposed to be the purest thing around?
Sometimes, I dare ask myself what is it that I hate so much about the way I'm built
Are these the fears caging me —the nagging voices in my head screaming I'm never going to be enough?
Sometimes, I dare ask the time it would take for me to see myself in the same light as people do
Will I see a glorious person —shining in an earnest glow— living the best they can being someone who they're supposed to be?
Sometimes, I dare ask but the wind has been a quiet draft inside my head Sometimes, I dare ask for a small prayer that would somehow carry me to the end
