Lord Lackbeard from Prairie by Cocoba

I get myself up every morning
and stand up on two legs,
look outside my window
and hear my mother say:

"Oh Nick, don't worry,
you're fearfully and wonderfully made."

But what does that say,
about those stitched together
in different ways --
if I privilege how I became?

Don't you like my beard?
Don't you like my muscles?
And aren't I so tall?
How'd I get so handsome?

I think my body's better.
I think my body's worse.
The matter I'm composed of
dictates my sense of worth.


In eighth grade I cried
cause I weighed 103.
When I told my mother
she said this to me:

"Allison, don't worry,
you're perfectly and beautifully made.
Don't think about size, or compare yourself,
you're not the same."

But she still cared
about the numbers on the scale.

Don't you like my ass?
Don't you like my makeup?
Aren't I so thin?
How'd I get so pretty?

I think my body's better,
I think my body's worse.
The matter I'm composed of,
dictates my sense of worth.

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