Is it my fault that I was born this way? Did I ask for a body that doesn’t fit the society’s idea of “ideal”? You spoke about me constantly— my body, my face, my voice. You made me insecure, yet now you expect me to smile, to act like you didn’t make me small. Because of you, I watch every move I make. I don’t speak when you’re near— fear grips my tongue, fear of what you’ll say, fear of your laughter. Even when I’m alone I cannot be free; your words follow me like shadows. Were they jokes? Or am I too broken to know the difference? I did not ask to be born “imperfect.” Am I imperfect— or did you teach me to believe I was? You built this box around me, locked me inside, and called it a joke. But tell me— are you flawless the way you carry yourself?