you are not pretty.

your pale skin is marred

by stretchmarks, scars, and discoloration,

obviously traumatized

by the struggles of life.

your eyes

are a mundane brown

that have seen

every rude or pitying glance

thrown your way.

your ears stick out

and have heard every jeer

from dumbo

to the eighth wonder of the word.

your lips 

have been kissed by silly boys

who crooned love into your mouth

but fled the next morning.

you are oh so scarred.

so, no.

you are not pretty.

no, you are not

a six-letter word

that seems to determine

every little thing in this age.

you are not just pretty.

because pretty does not even begin

to describe the things

that you are.

pretty is not a word

that does you a shard of justice,

unless it’s to say that

you are pretty freaking amazing

or pretty freaking fabulous.

what you are

is a warrior,

someone who has fought a battle

against a two-syllable word

that seems to dictate the female world

and mold young girls

into thinking that

such a vapid, shallow word

is synonymous with happiness,

that with outer beauty

comes inner peace.

no, you have fought this battle

and you have won.