You say I am pretty, I don’t see it.
Where? Where do you see it?
It’s something I’d like to get.
It’s something I’d like to know.
Does my beauty really show?
Perhaps, could my insecurity go?
You speak to me and those with me.
Why? Why do you bother with me?
There’s nothing attractive to see.
My conversations are always dim.
My vocabulary is frightfully slim.
Perhaps, if I were alone you’d see me less prim.
You say I look appealing.
What? What do you see?
I see bulges I wish would leave.
I see limbs I wish to lengthen.
I see features I wish to strengthen.
Perhaps, it’s my vulnerability you mention.
You have heard of me.
Who? Who told you of me?
Was it good things? Was it bad?
Did they tell you my family’s mad?
Did they tell you I’m just sad?
Perhaps, the stigma makes me glad.
You say I’m too quiet, too silent.
How? How does volume make a person?
If you’d only use an ear, just one,
You’d hear my cry, you’d hear my plea,
Longing to be more than a body to see.
Perhaps, the mirror would let me be.
They say true beauty is learned?
When? When will I learn?
I am not a word, bad or good.
I am not a look, a sound, a mood.
I am me, that I’ve learned.
Perhaps, that’s bad?
Perhaps, that’s good.