Sometimes I wonder what others can see.
The darkened rouge highlighted under my eyes or the gap between my teeth.
Do they see the brown eyes that I wish were blue?
The roundness of a face that could lose a pound or two?
Can people see all that I hide in the dark?
The skin that holds the shame of a million different scars?
A body too big, yet too frail and unstrong.
That which no one double takes in interest unless it's to tell you that it's wrong.
Wrong like the freckles that are splashed across my face.
One for every mistake I think genetics and fate made.
Statement eyebrows that furrow at this life.
I drag my short, and stout legs to my bed where I hide.
Silencing my husky voice; if I could, I'd never say a word.
Other than when I pray aloud, "Dear God, I wish I looked like her."
Softer, more graceful, ethereal, lovely.
Because of all I'm not, I'd guess that's why no one has ever loved me.
How could they? How could he? He'd never love my face.
I would rake my hair back in frustration if it ever went the right way.
And the moments turn into hours, and the hours into days.
The days turn into years. Years. Maybe even decades of self-hate.
In the macro sense, I know my insecurities are silly.
But the aching need for beauty be feels like it's going to kill me.
Be nicer, kinder, smarter. Be perfect in every other way.
I'm running myself ragged trying hard to compensate.
Prettier, wittier, skinnier, brave.
Maybe then he could love me. Maybe then he would stay.
So I'll live in my shadows and stray from your light.
I know all my truths, but you'll tell me your lies.
And with my metaphorical mask, I'll pretend that I'm fine.
...Until I see someone prettier. And I'll die a little more inside.