Beauty

Ha!

I want to say that I never cared, but that would be a lie. In my mind, I'd see myself as beautiful. I'd create an image that ....that....was just not what the mirror revealed, was just not what others saw.

I'd like to say that I know what they saw, but that too would be a lie.

I know the words that I heard...boobs....Mr Ed...clumsy....these weren't words that spoke beauty to  me.

When I was older, I gave myself to a man who professed his love and said I was beautiful. But his words came with strings. I was still clumsy. I was beautiful, because he'd do anything he wished I'd ask him for sexually, but I didn't. I was beautiful, except that I was not that bright. I was beautiful except that I had jowls, those of my mother. I was beautiful, after he twisted my words around his, until my eyes were red and puffy and he'd console me, with sex, for himself. I was beautiful...just not to me.

And then there was another, who spoke the words so often...who told me his feelings, his truth. Who was angry when I didn't trust, didn't believe. Until I did. And then it stopped. The words. The beauty. Was it ever real?

I could tell myself that I'm beautiful. I can imagine. But I can't hear a voice that isn't mine, and the beauty has no reflection.

I try to believe, even if it's just a dream. I try to hope it's different then what I face, when I open my eyes. And even if I can see my beauty, it is me who is blind, if no one else does, or is my vision enough?