Stretch marks are pretty.
We’re told that all the time, and we see pictures of girls who’s thighs look like jupiter and suddenly we’re convinced they are pretty. Because, they are.
But it’s hard to love your stretch marks.
When they don’t fit the conventional “pretty”.
When you’re a 55 kilo, 5’4″, 17 year old.
When people are surprised they even exist on your body, and they don’t try to hide that fact. ‘Because it’s a compliment! I didn’t think you were big enough to have stretch marks!’ Gee thanks.
When they are vibrant purple and blood red and sometimes even blue. ‘Aren’t stretch marks supposed to be white, like lightening bolts?’
When they cover your thighs. And hips. And bum. And tummy. And boobs. And calves. And people aren’t afraid to point them out to you as though you haven’t spent hours in front of the mirror wishing them away.
When they intertwine themselves with the little, dead straight, white lines scattered across your body that you wish would disappear. And people in turn ask what those are, even though you really don’t want to talk about it. And how can you love your stretch marks when they occupy the same parts of your body as something that you hate and regret so much?
Stretch marks are pretty, on other girls.
Stretch marks are pretty, scattered across the backs of boys.
Stretch marks are pretty, and I am fascinated by their beauty, except on me.
It’s hard to love your stretch marks. But I promise I’m trying.