TW: Hating/Comparing my body

By the shore in Rimini, on a warm August day,

I sat by the dock as the waves slipped away.

Feet in the air, above the sea's sway,

but my gaze fell upon them—elegant in their way.

A British family arrived, voices light and clear,

three girls with a grace that drew me near.

They moved with a slender, effortless ease,

their laughter catching in the breeze.

Skin smooth as glass, their heights just right,

they dove from the dock, beauty in flight.

As I watched, I wondered, my mind adrift,

"Why can't I wear that same flawless gift?"

"Why can't my skin look as soft as theirs?

Why can't I stand without the weight of stares?"

Their slender thighs, their poised, lithe frames—

at that moment, I felt all my self-blame.

I could have enjoyed the ocean that day,

the warmth, the water, the summer's display.

But instead, I drowned in my own heavy doubt,

feeling small, as they moved in and out.

I regret that afternoon, how I spent it all,

envy casting shadows, making me feel small.

Yet, even now, as the memory remains,

the ocean remembers only our names.