Childish insecurities.


They sit, giggling and talking about things mothers usually do.

Not a strand out of place and their makeup divine.

The cloths they wear, anyone can wear it, but on them they look like super-models.

Their children come running, wearing the must haves for tykes.

With curls so perfect, Taylor Swift would be envious.

I like to pride myself in how confidant I am.

How it doesn’t matter to me, if I sit alone.  Cause I’m chill like that.

But it does.

I act like it doesn’t matter that my clothes are stained from baby puke (something I know to well)

and that my hair is going for the messy look.

But it does matter.

I pretend that size doesn’t matter, that I am happy with the size and shape that I am.

But clearly I am not.

I pretend that the remarks about me using cloth diapers, don’t hurt.

But they do.

I want to be confidant.  I want to be the type of woman that the others want to be like.

But I am insecure.


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