Pretty In Plus Size

I’m what you consider fat. You can blame genetics. You can blame McDonalds. You can blame your mother. You can blame your father. You can blame the temptation of the delicious donut you just ate. It doesn’t matter. I can blame whoever I want. It doesn’t a change a thing. Because I’m still fat. Every day at school I get the looks From the anorexic beauty queens Who wear twice as much makeup. And spend three times the effort on their hair. Why? Because they want to look pretty. Pretty for who? Pretty for their subconscious that wreaks havoc On their pretty little figures. I get looks from the boys With the pretty little wretches dangling from their buff arm. Why? Because they think they’re better than me. They’re not. Because they don’t know what I go through. Every time I avoid mirrors. Every time I shop for the XXL in the juniors section And don’t find a thing. The way I glare at the Victoria Secret Models. The way I envy the pretty little girls. Then I realize it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I’m fat. Because I can rock my body just as good as the pretty sticks. I have the butt. I have breasts. I’m perfect just the way I am. I might be Plus Size. I might never be skinny. I might blame Genetics. Or my mother. Father. The donut I just ate. It doesn’t matter. Because I’m Pretty in plus size.