I’ll never be the type of beauty that makes a person
I will never be the subject a love song or a poem-
I’ll never be the star of a story of unrequited love.
My eyes are dull green, not the striking, shimmering turquoise of oceans-
Pools of clarity, interjected with flecks of deep brown hesitancy, they tell
My story.
They’ve been red rimmed from crying in pain, in anguish, in desperation.
They’ve turned up at the corners with delight,
Blurred with love,
Steadily judging a situation’s worth.
These eyes have changed to a stormy hazel
Bewitched by truthful-seeming lies, an oxymoron-
(Of epic proportions.)
The green orbs under my forehead have seen strife,
Practiced patience.
They’ve played tricks on their owner, housing spots of danger,
Watching the world
(Around my shoulders.)
My eyes are many things, but decoration is not their purpose.
My hair is equal in prominence, housing my insecurities, in turns-
My pride and joy, at times-
The bane of my day.
Those who say that a bad hair day is
Has clearly not lived a day in my scalp.
I peer out from curtains of dark brown,
Shrouding my pale face,
Hiding my intentions,
Obscuring truth from view.
Smelling of orange blossoms
(And cranberries)
Wherever I go my hair follows-
Annoyingly static to my form.
Fine and thick,
Contradiction housed within.
No, I’ll never be the princess in a fairytale.
I don’t demand a second glance,
Melding with the scenery-
Like the wallflower
(That I often evoke.)
My skin is nearly translucent,
Freckled and rosy.
My skin is Irish…
I am not.
Once again, the girl in the mirror-
(To argue.)
The thick dark eyebrows contest prior claims-
Shockingly French in stature.
I am a mélange.
I am no exotic beauty.
I don’t pretend to beauty,
Brushing my cheeks with rouge,
Caking my face with foundation,
Layering each eyelash with thick, goopy mascara.
I look the same throughout the day as I do when I wake,
(Though slightly cleaner.)
Pillow creases gone-
I am recognizably makeup inept, choosing instead to wander the world-
Fresh-faced and forgettable.
My body is in constant confusion,
Lovingly accepting the pounds I offered
As a white flag surrender to health.
No longer do my bones jut from my form, visibly fragile, osteoporosis waiting to happen. No.
To look at me you wouldn’t know the growth I’ve seen.
You would never guess the battles I’ve fought
(And won.)
To look at me, you wouldn’t recognize the shell of a person I once was.
You would know the face, but
You’d see familiarities, but you wouldn’t know me.
I’m not complaining about my frequent flirtations with invisibility.
Why, I once even enjoyed my invisibility.
It allowed me to carry on hurting,
Without ever calling anger by its name.
I’m not fishing for a compliment,
Asking to be called beautiful,
Whether or not you might think it true.
(Is not the point)
I’m not seeking recognition for my struggles.
(For I know you’ve had them too.)
I am asking that you not ignore me, if you see me passing-
(And I know you see me)
I am looking for a smile.
I am looking for recognition-
(Not of my beauty)-
Of all beauty.
For I refuse.
I refuse to cave in to your sweet seduction,
In the name of what you’ve deemed is right.
(I am not a Barbie doll)
I will eat a snack at night whether you think that’s
I will not feel badly for my blatant
(With your standards.)
If that means that I am not a beauty that makes a person
A song.
Then it means that I am free-
To be.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s