I’m seldom told that I am beautiful.
I see the beauty in everything around me – the bare trees, the green pennies, every hole in the wall – but not in myself. There’s no light within me, no broken stained glass dancing in my depths. There are no poems whispered and stitched into my soul, no miracles plastered to my name. I’m all too ordinary.
On the rare evening when someone does take a liking to my tattered edges, a bad tastes rises up my throat. They use words that are supposed to fill me up, flood my heart. But instead I find myself suffocated, struggling to tread water at all. And it’s no pretty sight, a girl drowning in her own inhibitions.
So days and years pass me by like taxis speed by the polite in favor of the pushy. I do not fight it anymore. I keep my quiet to myself and write love poems to the other ordinaries. Someone, I decided, should tell them that they’re beautiful.