Too thin? Too thick? Fix your nose, fix your lips. Stuff your bra, pad your hips—who said we gotta fix this sh*t?

Scrollin’ through my feed, it’s a freakin’ parade, of Botox babes and AI face shades. She’s 19, lookin’ 30—what’s the game? I’m out here wonderin’ if my freckles bring shame. Push-up, snatched waist, filter, fake tan, God forbid a roll shows when I stand. Paper in my bra like it’s middle school trends, but at least my soul ain’t playin’ pretend.

I’m not a filter, I’m not a phase, not your Barbie, not your craze. Call me flawed, call me real—But I won’t fake what I feel.

Fix me later, I’m busy being fine, got my scars, got my quirks, and I own every line. You can keep your plastic prize, I’d rather laugh with my crooked smile—so stuff your standards in a shoebox, ‘cause I ain’t made to fit your lie.

Gap teeth, big feet, thighs that touch, magazine said, “Girl, that’s a little too much.” Well screw your edits and your perfect illusion, I’m a walking, talking, raw revolution. Filler in your face, Botox in your brow, what if you were lovable just as you are now? Stitched up lips, snatched jawlines fade, but real laughs? Real hearts? Never go outta date.

I’m not a project, I’m not your doll, don’t need your thumbs to feel ten feet tall. Call me loud, call me strange—I won’t shrink to make you change.

Fix me later, I’m busy being fine, got my scars, got my quirks, and I own every line. You can keep your plastic prize, I’d rather laugh with my crooked smile—so stuff your standards in a shoebox, ‘cause I ain’t made to fit your lie.

“Oh my god, is that your real nose?” Yes. And it can still smell bullshit. “Have you tried contouring that jawline?” Nah—but I did try not giving a damn. “You’d be so pretty if you just…” If I just what? Became a clone with no personality? Pass.

They sell you shame with a ribbon and tag, then charge you double just to feel “not bad.” But we ain’t broken—we ain’t spare parts, we’re walking works of rebellious art.

Fix me later, I’m busy being fine, got my scars, got my quirks, and I own every line. You can keep your plastic prize, I’d rather laugh with my crooked smile—so stuff your standards in a shoebox, ‘cause I ain’t made to fit your lie.

“Too thin? Too thick? Fix your nose, fix your lips… Fix your standards, fix your scripts—we ain’t the ones that need a fix.”

“Is that a compliment or projection, babe—‘cause I ain’t the one that needs correction.”

“Did you read that paper before you stuffed your shoes with it?”

“Poser!”

“Too thin? Too thick? Fix your nose, fix your lips… Fix your standards, fix your scripts—we ain’t the ones that need a fix.”

“Is that a compliment or projection, babe—‘cause I ain’t the one that needs correction.”

“Did you read that paper before you stuffed your shoes with it?”

“Poser!”