I am beautiful.
And trust me, so are you.
You might look at
this poem and think
“How can she say this,
she doesn’t know me.”
You’re right, I don’t,
but I wish I did, I hope that
we can speak all night until
the sun decides to show her
bright and radiant face,
just to give me a night where
I could get to know you
and all the quirky little things
that make you the unique and
They called me weird, different,
names that people fear and run from.
But you know what I say to them…
Who wants to be normal anyways?
Aren’t the dreamers, the wishers,
the artists and free-thinkers the ones
who changed the world, who made
it a time worth living?
And yes, you can be beautiful
on the outside, but what I really
care about, what I look for in a
friend, companion, lover, is how
beautiful you are on the inside,
how your hopes and dreams
are wild and extravagant, and how
your heart is bigger than the rest
of your body, no matter what the size.
I want to blame society, for making
us fall victim to believing in one type
of beauty, an unattainable figure and size
that we torture ourselves over,
I admit that I too failed to achieve that image.
But I didn’t fail,
I found out who I am in the process,
I discovered how I’m different than the rest,
how my flaws, scars, and frizzy hair
make up the person that I am proud to be.
I am beautiful,
I won’t let anyone tell me other wise,
and I wish I could know you,
so I could tell you how beautiful you are too.
I am beautiful.
I pressed my back softly to rest
against the wild blades of grass,
and stared up towards the vast
night sky above my dizzy mind.
The stars were burning brightly,
shining together, flickering and
illuminating the warm autumn evening.
I laid there for what seemed like
days and thought of you when
I closed my tired eyes.
I can’t forget how you would
make a heart shape with your
painted fingers, I would giggle
and whisper that it resembled
more of a triangle, and you would
wrestle me to the ground, tickling
my bones until I had tears in my eyes,
finally confessing that you were right
all along, it was a different type of heart,
a unique shape that was made for me,
and only me.
We were young and in love,
do you remember how our wonderful
and innocent bodies danced under the
milky white shadows of the summer night?
How our once separate lives slowly
grew into mirrored promises and pinky swears
to a lifetime of kisses on the forehead, and
expressing our deepest secrets each night
while we made a home in our sheets.
I opened my eyes to adore the
sky above, and listened to you pacing
the kitchen and singing to the silence.
I knew it was time to come inside,
the breeze grew colder, but it all felt so
peaceful here, allowing my mind to
float off into the night sky.
I could live and die under these stars
with your warm hand laced in mine.
I’ve been told we are all
good at something, a way of
being unique, a specialty,
if you will call it.
I’m good at a lot of things.
I’m good at embracing the
chaos in life, allowing it, inviting
it to astonish me.
Good at having men want me,
not to date or marry me,
but to lust and chase my
sense of sex appeal and my body.
Good at drinking whiskey
taking long burning gulps
until my inhibitions are cloudy.
Good at taking short breaths
from ripped, tar filled lungs.
I’m good at pretending that
I don’t hurt, convincing people
with my cold words,
and hash expressions
of how my heart has retired,
that I no longer feel.
I’m good at fooling people,
but when I’m all alone in
this yellow room, the love
and creativity being choked
from my breath, I realize
I can lie to everyone else,
but not myself.