Am so tired of pretending,
Of these stretch marks standing.
My body is a rugged hell of a painting,
And the "I" in me is slanting.
And I feel this pain,
Of comparison plunging into disdain.
All the eyes would do me no good but scan,
And juxtapose with lads and ladies of next lane.
Nobody had seen me naked,
A skin of scars and stretches so wicked.
And now out of attention, I am this ticket,
Whom you gotta out the wicket.