In what sense, is someone beautiful?
Who defines the worthy outlines
Of a young girls troubled face
As she stares enviously
At the women who gracefully stride
“Perfect” all over her unguarded thoughts?

“I want to be perfect,” she says,
Forming crystal thoughts of fancy features,
Graceful hands, and simple senses of contentment
As people stop to take the moment
To give her the look of jealousy,
The look which she now holds tightly.

She smothers her face with playful colors
And wears nothing less than the latest fashion.
“But I want to be flawless” she says,
Still remembering those silvery tones
That spun spidery webs in the back of her throat.

Still, she looks into the horror of a mirror—
Seeing anything besides those of God’s features.
She remembers the torturous sedated memories
Of the women in which she wanted to be.
Years have gone by, and she sings monotonously:
“I still want to be beautiful.”

But, the definition of this word has always been wrong.
Always, it has been more than plastic faces in the outworn media.
Its design is fashioned by the outlines of a smile
Radiating off the face of its beholder
While throwing cohesive rays of happy for others to enjoy.

Beautiful is an interpretation, a symbol of freedom.
It is the right to say, “I am beautiful,
Despite the flaws I curl between my fingers.”
Then wishes construct into reality as realization
Forms inside her core, reflecting what has always been.
And I finally say, “I am beautiful.”