I want to feel pretty.
My friends always used to tell me
“You wear too much make-up!
You should look,
Natural.”
Said the girls with eyeliner up to the
Middle of their eyelids,
Who looked like clowns.
When I pass by them in the hallway,
I feel as if I was 7 years old again
And I’m backstage at the circus
With my father.
The carnies staring me down
Judging me without cracking one smile,
One laugh.
I want to feel pretty.
I used to be able to wake up and
See no flaws.
Now I wake up and they yell at me through
The mirror.
“You don’t have a thigh gap.
Your teeth aren’t white enough.
That top makes you look fat.
The jeans are too tight
Or not tight enough.
Your bra is showing.
There’s a pimple the size of a
Poppy seed on your forehead.
Your hair is a hot mess,
Fix it.”
I want to feel pretty.
I want him to tell me every once in a while
“You look pretty today,
Your clothes look fantastic,
Your hair looks amazing.”
I don’t want to hear
“Your butt looks nice
In those jeans.
Do anything to your boobs?
They look perkier.”
That doesn’t make me feel pretty!
That makes me feel
Like an object,
Eye candy.
I don’t want to feel sexy,
I want to feel pretty.
I don’t want to wake up next to you
In the morning in nothing but
Your t-shirt.
That makes me feel like a tissue,
used.
I would get out of bed while you are
Still sleeping and see myself
In your bathroom mirror.
Make-up smudged down my cheeks.
As if I cried for hours,
“I’m pretty! I’m pretty! I’m pretty!”
As you made my body tingle
In ways only you could achieve.
I want to feel pretty.
On my 17th birthday I wore a knee length halter dress.
My friends saw me and said I looked elegant,
Beautiful,
Classy,
Beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful.
And you turned your back and walked
Away.
The first time I walked into your house
Your mother’s jaw almost dropped
But she picked it up and the word
“Beautiful” spilled over the kitchen counter like
The medium roast of coffee I am.
I think I’m beautiful.
But, mostly inside.
On the outside I feel plastic.
My hair straightened in 8th grade
Because everyone called me ugly.
My glasses broken and
Softer lenses were put in my eyes
Because I was a “nerd.”
My clothes donated and
Completely replaced with more
Expensive ones because,
I looked homeless.
Make-up covered my face
Because my eyes didn’t pop
Or my tones didn’t blend.
When I got ready for school
It felt like I was putting on war paint
Getting ready to fight the battles of name calling
And disgusted glares.
I want to feel pretty.
I don’t want to feel sexy or
“cute.”
Cute is for kittens. I want to feel like a bird
A mockingbird, don’t kill me with your words.
Today, I no longer feel like
A visitor in my own body.
My make-up sleeps in my drawer
For special nights.
My white t-shirts hang proudly
In my closet as if
They are my new camouflage.
My hair is twisted comfortably
In top knot.
I can sit in lectures
With the voices in my head
To a whisper
And the voices around me hushed.
I feel pretty,
No.
Beautiful.
