benjamin franklin? more like BEN JAMIN’ franklin
What is, pretty?
What is attractive, beautiful, gorgeous, extraordinary, breath-taking.
Is it defined by those multi-colored eyes, the define angles of the face, or how high or wide the nose is? Or is it the beautiful flowing hair that seems to look flawless no matter how humid the air is, especially when it dries after a salt-water bath. Every strand falls into place, an action that your so-called mane never seemed to manage. It just wouldn’t cooperate, would it? No matter how hard you try, and how hard you don’t.
Or is it…more?
Is it how her thighs don’t touch, how easily one could wrap their arms around her. Her petite size. How the tip tape measurement lands on 23 around her tiny, tiny, tiny waist. The two bumps on her hips that seem as big as mountains and as pointed as freshly sharpened knives. The line around her abdomen, the shallow button. All those things you know you would never have the chance to hold in your hand.
Remember those desultory encouragements to yourself? All of those You’ll get there someday’s. Every one of You’re just as good as she is’s. All those times you try to bring yourself ephemeral felicity. It never did.
Because inside, you know that you will never be her, even as you shrink from a 4 to a satisfying 0, even if you shrink and shrink until you are nothing but a distant, faint memory, you will never be as comely as her. An effervescent teen and a demure soul.
Don’t give me all those nonsense on how beauty lives within. You’re lying. The world is lying. Every day, every night, every second of the day. White lies, they could be. Evil ones. Unintended. Lies. Lies. Lies.
A chubby, short, unattractive brunette. A slim, tall, fetching ginger. Same age, same background. Same personality. No price. No consequences. Nothing but two skeletons standing in front of you, both staring with their windows.
Don’t lie to me.
Who would you choose?
Why do people judge by the color of the skin, then, if beauty is within? Why do you walk a few inches further, when a dirty, woebegone man huddles on the streets? Why do you scurry away from people who have scars from battles?
Don’t lie to me.
No one likes me because I’m not pretty. I hate myself, because I’m not pretty. I hate myself for not being what people want. I loathe the gigantic layer of fat under my skin, and I stare everyday, with tears of jealousy and anger, cursing the world for not giving me the glamour that I rightly deserve.
What is pretty?
There is no shame in saying that I could flip through a magazine, scroll through a blog, and call almost every person posing with pride, pretty. Eyes glimmering with admiration, heart filled with shame.
I want to be perfect.
But what is perfection? What is pretty?
When will I be able to be brave enough to look in a mirror once more without the guilt that knocks me down every single day of my life?
- the state or quality of being perfect:the satiny perfection of her skin
his pursuit of golfing perfection
- a person or thing considered to be perfect:I am told that she is perfection itself
- the action or process of improving something until it is faultless:among the key tasks was the perfection of new mechanisms of economic management
How could one be faultless?
7 billion pairs of eyes, 7 billion minds, 7 billion lost souls.
How does one become perfect?
What is perfect?
And what is pretty?