BEAUTIFUL: A Slam Poem

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It’s in the sight of the person who is looking.
But I’m the only one sneaking peeks.
I spent an hour in the bathroom this morning.
Shaving my legs.
Plucking my brows.
Straightening hair.
Exfoliating off dead skin.
Covering up lines and freckles.
Rubbing on shadow.
Lining my lids.
Putting mascara on my short lashes.
Brightening cheeks with blush.
Trying to plump up my top lip.
Why? Who for? Myself? Its worth? Some unknown man? His affections?
What is the standard of beauty? I miss new city living where I’m considered an exotic Venus not a small western town plain jane. Here, they want the blondes with sparkling baby blues and leggy limbs. With my frizzy hair and dark skin, I will never fit into that mass.
I miss getting hit on by random strangers. Men in their tight denim. Blokes on the corner block. They smoke their cigarettes and look me up and down. Whistle. Call me, PRETTY. A STUNNER.
I’m shallow. But they made that way. Those men. These women.
I know that I will never be a size two but do they? They push me into buying expensive products and teeny garments, insisting those things will make me feel better about myself; but do they? The creams. The fabrics.
I’m a product of damage. Hurtful words of on-lookers and my mother. My own mutilation wounds. Doubts that always collect in my brain.
How can I fix what they did to me? These bodily ruins?
No self-help book will heal me. Neither will a million hours of psychotherapy, even though I know I’m not crazy.
Even that garbage paste and fake skin- cover up- they to convince me to buy will not suffice.
I guess I’m on my own. I need to fix myself.
I don’t know how but I will.
I need to see the beauty within in order to see the beauty without.
Dress size 12. D cup.
Oily skin. Acne scars.
Fake, chipped teeth. Scratched glasses.
Cellulite. Stretch marks.
Filled with kindness, spunk and an empowering brain.
I’m a knockout.

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