she doesn't see her eyes,
like almonds, but with color
as deep and as rich hazelnut coffee,
but the shadows of exhaustion
that underline the windows to her soul
so symbolically.
She doesn't see the perfect lips,
small, innocent, soft,
and crowned with a perfect Cupid's bow,
she sees the inherited double-chin
which was not the first thing
she hated about herself, but was
the first thing that made her afraid
of becoming "The Fat Girl."
She doesn't see soft, porcelain skin
alive and electric
eager and adept at translating
and amplifying sensation,
she sees the dark little hairs
that marr the silk,
making her want to tear at it
destroy it.
She doesn't see soft, delicate curves,
the perfect hourglass
that made Marilyn an icon of womanhood,
she is distracted by the dimples in the skin
that disgust her.
She cannot see all the gorgeous that she is
she is blinded by all the ugly they pointed out.
She cannot see all the gorgeous that she is
she is blinded by all the ugly they pointed out.
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