lamentations a week from 18

i. i am told there is so much more to loveliness than lips and eyebrows, that the traits lurking under are plenty. i am told i am everything and that i am like no one else. there is more than the shape of my nose, more to be unearthed when the right person cares enough to dig. bright with dancing sunbeams, i am told i am the sun. i am told i am warm. i am told i am so much more than they told me i am. they promise me things and i believe them. my curls frame a perfect picture, they say. i am quick-thinking. i care, i am not told that i care too much. i manage to catch eyes that do not stray for a while. is it enough?

ii. i am not beautiful but i could be.

iii. the bitterness cannot be explained. there is a deep loathing within that i cannot will away, something flowing through my arteries, that touches every part of me. i am lied to. i am never looked at twice. truth is unearthed slow, fossilized within my empty smiles. i am more easily replaced than sources of happiness and i am only kept close for convenience. i am picked first but chosen last. the only pictures of myself i love are the ones where my face is hidden. hide the eyes to hide the soul, hide the mouth to hide the false affirmations of confidence and assurance. i cannot peel back my skin to reveal what is under, or i will be left alone again. nothing is ever as right as it could be. words are brittle. i am tired of telling people things. i am tired of being understood. i do not believe them anymore.

iv. i am not beautiful and i never could be.