I can recall the last time I was called cute

The last time I was called pretty

The last time I was called beautiful

But I cannot for the life of me recall the last time

I was recognized for something other than my appearance

 

I couldn’t tell you the last time I was called creative

Or imaginative, thoughtful, clever

That my mind was wonderful

Or that I was even alive

 

When did life become a contest of appearance?

At what point did I become ashamed of the scars on my face?

If Jupiter is known for his great spot

And the moon is idolized for her craters,

Why aren’t I?

 

We hide behind masks because our own anatomy,

Our humanness

Is not perceived as good enough

 

Because someone told me

That in order to be beautiful

I had to forget the paint I used for paper

And to put it on my skin instead

 

I am a creature of a culture

That has taught women that

In order to be beautiful

She must meet criteria

 

That her body comes with a warranty

And her value is a measure of the price sticker

On her lipstick

And not the compassion in her blood

That her face is more imperative to her beauty

Than her dreams and aspirations

 

I live behind a curtain of ideals and false certainties.

To this day

I am still clawing the mask of society’s ideals

Off of my cratered face

 

My whole life I was led to believe

That pretty was success

And skinny was mandatory

 

That you are not worth a thing to the world

If that scale says anything over 120

Since when did skipping dinner for the week

Make me more beautiful than

Skipping class to see a friend in need?

 

And if the hair on my legs

Is any indicator for the worth of my mind

Then throw out my razor

Because if the world only sees me as what it wants to

It is my job to challenge it.

 

Because beauty is not beautiful

If every girl doesn’t feel it