To the condescending misters,

Frowning upon the girls,

Who are afraid of food,

And scratch at their bellies,

Begging to be twigs.

You look down upon us,

Patronizing our emotions,

Asking why, dear god, why

Why are we so damn unhappy

With the way we look-

You gasp at our comparisons,

To the photoshopped models  

We can never be.

You beg us,

Preaching oh so saintly,

That everyone is beautiful.

You show us

Expectations of what we cannot be,

Defining our thoughts of beauty,

Sighing sadly at the girls,

Who claw at their thighs,

And run away from dessert.

And still,

You have the audacity

To tell me to feel pretty.