Trigger warning: body hate
I hate my stomach.
Not the shape.
Because it has an almost nice curve to it.
Not the stretch marks, because they are just sort of lovely.
It all comes down to a self portrait in my art journal.
It is an abstract portrait of my body.
Adopted Mormon loved it.
But Octopus took one look at it and said something about my bellybutton.
I don’t think he realized it was me.
But I almost started bawling.
And I still can’t fucking come to terms with it.
Like fuck.
