"Sometimes it feels like beautiful
is the party of the year, and I wasn’t invited
(but I went..."
Sometimes it feels like beautiful
is the party of the year, and I wasn’t invited
(but I went anyway).
And inside, the baseline pulses
with my heartbeat and there are all these
perfect mouths: open and laughing
in the strobing darkness.
A boy who is all sharp jaw and white teeth
settles in behind me, hands on my hips,
close enough to kiss–
he leans in, licks his lips, says:
Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.
The joke
is that I am always trying to be
someone else.
It’s a magic trick, and
I haven’t gotten the hang of it, yet.
But it is a chore to love this body.
And on the days I do love it,
I usually don’t like the person inside of it.
I used to joke that all my sex appeal
instantly disappears the minute I open
my mouth.
I don’t say that anymore,
because that’s a shitty thing to say about yourself.
But the point still stands
that I feel helplessly awkward
being the person that I am.
Sometimes, I think my heart is actually
that sweet, pale pink you find
in babies’ bedrooms:
an organ made, not of blood, but
of the compressed powder from
a makeup compact. Softly blushing.
Given to crumble.
Sometimes I think that I’m only loud
so you won’t see how bad I’m shaking.
All this bravado to make up for the fact
that I am inherently fragile.
All these panic attacks dressed up as poetry,
just cries for help, desperately begging you
to love me.
You have no idea how many years I have been
second choice.
Imagine, being nobody’s first priority:
the one who’s left but never the one who leaves.
Trust me when I say, I know what it means
to keep swallowing pride
just to give your heart something
to eat.
Because when you don’t feel worthy,
you’ll take anything.
In the aftermath,
I stitch my body up with
one night stands and stolen kisses.
I write myself into my own story
as the villain, because I feel like
a poor excuse for a hero.
I keep collecting compliments in a jar
on the bedside table, hoping that maybe
if the jar gets full
I might finally be able to believe them.
It is hard to believe the people telling you
you are beautiful
when there is so much evidence to the contrary:
when there is so much unrequited love,
an entire childhood full of bullying,
when the ones who kiss you are
never the ones who stay.
So today
I am rebuilding what it means
to feel beautiful.
Today, beautiful is
knees covered in sidewalk chalk.
Today, beautiful is
hands riddled with paper cuts.
It’s bitten nails and bedhead.
Beautiful
is a warm cup of coffee and
someone to share it with.
Today, beautiful is something tangible:
something that I can get
and I can give
and I want all of you
to have it.
- REBUILDING BEAUTIFUL by Ashe Vernon
