Who has a say in what is beautiful
and what is not?
Who has that power?
Who gave it away?
Why use it as a weapon?
Torn down,
since I was 9.
A sweet little girl,
with big blue eyes.
You picked and prodded,
for my biggest insecurity.
A broken face.
The names shot like bullets,
The laughs stung like venom.
My eyes shattered like a plate.
So let the games begin.
Pinocchio, like I should be hanging out
With grasshoppers.
Rudolph,
And I can’t join any reindeer games.
Elephant face,
like I belonged in a zoo,
Or a circus,
With clowns,
ringleaders, and
Misfits.
All of those times,
People walked by with fingers alongside theirs
mimicking mine.
The laughs, the jokes, and all of the tears.
I broke it again,
And again, and again.
This everyday game
Now became your career.
As I got older,
The torment did too.
More vicious,
More consistent,
More tiring.
Just shy of 16, they let me decide
To choose pain and numbness
In exchange for some pride.
And of course, I said yes.
For my mom, it was medical.
A chance to breathe,
for me it was social.
A chance to feel comfortable,
in my own broken skin,
to not cover my face.
But in their eyes,
The bell rang for round 3.
A whole new level of torture.
So the rumors spread
Faster than fire.
“She’s plastic and fake”
And I swore it was medically necessary.
After the swelling,
the bruising, the hibernation,
and all of the pain.
A long, cold winter,
lasting 7 years.
Hiding from mirrors,
in my own dark cave.
…. I thought it’d be all over….
I made one last trip to Boston,
to take the plastic cast off.
I stared into the perfect, purple mirror.
Numb.
I didn’t know
whether to laugh, or cry.
My heart fell to my stomach.
Not a single eye dry.
My chest began to pound,
as a smile began to grow.
I took a bunch of pictures,
Ready to show the world.
But I posted that picture with my cat and my cute nose.
But there was already a disposition,
to make me hate it.
You helped yourself,
hit that “thumbs up” button,
and announced to the world
That you "guess" I finally looked "okay".
That was more like a “middle finger” up,
to my transformed face.
And time froze.
But now here I am,
a couple years older.
and a few tears stronger.
My nose is healed,
the scars and packing gone.
But I still hide my face from you.
A little plastic surgery, never changed anything.
Still torn down,
still your target,
still a misfit.
Yet so many have said,
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”
But I’m sorry,
I can’t see past my nose,
This nose on my face.