I've lived a lot of my life through an inferiority complex. It has proved to be a ladder leading nowhere, and, thus, because I have spent so much of my time resting in my own self-defined versions of modesty and humility, it because even more difficult to step up that ladder. For the destination does not seem to end in self-love, the destination seems quite worthless and unclear. The people I've become close to in my life, it seems, see my perception of my worth as a canvas they can paint on. I spent so much of time boosting the egos of others, painting their canvases in yellows and pinks, I wonder if they use those colors on me, or see that it should really be blues and blacks. I only convey my honesty in the beauty of others, that which I could never see in myself. And so it goes- do I deem myself intelligent? Perhaps for a quick, fleeting moment. I study hard. I get good grades. Do I deem myself beautiful? Not in the least bit. There may have been fleeting moments of felt beauty however...there has always been some sort of innate disappointment, in myself, some sort of knowledge to do better, to roll around the entire scope. The disappointment stems from its older brother -- innate inferiority. 

Today I painted myself a portrait,
Of a girl with a big brain, and the
Body of worthiness. She had long 
Legs and Olive skin, few blemishes,
Here and there, but the curls in her 
Hair distracted their places. She was
Thick but appeared to be in good health,
Surrounded by true friends and
Good habits and a book in which 
She read and wrote all the dreams 
Of the world, and the promises of
Her tomorrows.

Yesterday, I painted myself a portrait,
Of a dumb girl with zero sensibility,
And the body of worthlessness. She had
Awful legs and white kin, too many blemishes
To count, and her hair seemed like plastic, 
That brought her many flaws to life. She was
Overweight and appeared to not care for her health,
Surrounded by people who thought she was too sensitive and
Bad habits and a book in which there were only
Words smeared across the page of cliche stories
Of the world, and the promises of all of 
Her sorrows. 

I despise your beady eyes and your orange hair
Or your black coat and disgusting snare
I loathe the way you lick your paws 
I cringe when others look at you in awe

I cannot understand the universal love for you,
Nor will I try, because there are other things to do
Like love a precious puppy, and cuddle with his fur
Or pretend like for my sorrows and woes, he is my cure

I do not like the way you chew your food
It's quite repulsive and quite frankly, crude
My eyes and ears are exhausted from your being
But nowadays, unfortunately you are all I'm seeing.

I do not know where this love has come from, 
I have prayed to make it stop, it is like a venom
Some sort of epidemic, disturbing as the sights of rats,
Why oh why is this the generation with a love for cats!

I hate the way they walk and how they stop to take a glance around, to wonder if others are watching them, as if their life is some dance recital. It's repulsive the way they do their business in boxes, and force those around them to get rid of the sand and its horrific smell. Their claws are only used for destructing purposes,so if they're absent, it's somehow cruel. I hate the way they have made every single animate and inanimate object into furniture for their lavish living. But most of all, the thing I hate the most about these feline creatures, is that I am forced to live with one.