I know I’m unattractive.

  Not in a coy way.

  Not in a fishing-for-compliments way.

  I mean it plainly.

  I am an acquired taste.

  My body is not built for every gaze.

  I am big in the wrong places—

  not big and beautiful,

  just big and uneven,

  big and obvious.

  I don’t photograph well.

  I don’t move through rooms

  like people want to keep looking.

  I know what kind of silence follows me.

  And still—

  if I had a clone,

  I would choose me.

  I would want me.

  I would touch me without flinching.

  I would know exactly where I soften,

  where I ache,

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  where I need to be held.

  That has to count for something.

  I am beautiful to myself—

  sometimes.

  Not always.

  But enough to know

  my body still hums,

  still wants,

  still responds.

  I still get urges.

  Still feel heat.

  Still imagine being chosen.

  I am still human.

  And honestly,

  that might be the best compliment

  I’ve ever given myself.

  Because I love myself

  even when no one else has stepped up.

  Even when no one has reached for me

  or claimed me

  or made me feel wanted out loud.

  This tree still stands.

  Uncut.

  Unchosen.

  And what gets me—

  what really gets me—

  is watching people I judge harsher than myself

  get love so easily.

  Get touched.

  Get wanted.

  And I wonder—

  not bitterly,

  just honestly—

  why not me?

  Why does desire pass me over

  like I’m invisible

  when I am standing right here,

  wanting,

  alive,

  open?

  I don’t think I’m owed anything.

  But sometimes I wish the world

  would notice

  that I am not unlovable—

  just unpicked.

  And maybe that hurts more.