What Gives You the Right?

What Gives You the Right?

You say I’m chubby, with a grin,

As if my body is your sin.

You point and laugh, then walk away,

yet your small words still choose to stay.

A bag of bones, all sharp and sly,

What gives you the right to pry?

To judge my shape, to twist my name,

And turn my body into shame.

My mother called me well-fed, true.

She never once looked down, like you.

She held my face and kissed my cheeks

Not once did she call thick and weak.

You dare to mess inside my head,

To pull apart the words she said.

But I am more than what you see.

Your comments do not measure me.

So hold your tongue, and turn around.

I do not shrink; I stand my ground.

So mark this down, and mark it deep.

Your shallow jabs won’t make me weep.

I’m more than numbers, size, or weight—

I carry pride, not fear or hate.

I’m built from steel, not shame or doubt.

Say what you will—I’ll drown you out.

Your words are weak, they fade, they fall.

But I walk tall, in spite of all.