I don't miss those days,

When my mom picked what I wore.

When my skinny jeans could mean war.

I don't miss those days,

When my mom would Christmas shop,

At every store I loathed.

No mom, I don't like sweaters,

No mom, I won't wear that skirt,

No mom, mauve and teal and periwinkle are not my style,

No matter what you say.

Because mom, beauty is not the colors on my body,

But rather the colors inside my head.

Beauty, mom, is not the price tag on my cloths,

But the confidence in which I hold.

Beauty, mom, is not the state of my hair,

But the reason I tie it back.

Beauty, mom, is not the size of my waist,

But rather the size of my heart in midst of my hurt.

No mom, I like my black and tan.

No mom, my skinny jeans and tee shirts are comfortable enough

No mom, I don't change how I look for anyone, I'm stronger than that.

No matter what you think.

You know, I don't miss those days,

When my mom hated what I wore.

When my style would mean war.

I don't miss those days,

When my mom would bring me down,

I'm glad mom, you love me and accept me,

Just the way I am.