Beauty

Once when I was seven,
My mother came home
with a doll.
It had blonde hair. Blue eyes.
A narrow frame.
She handed it to me
and she said,
"A princess for my princess."
Then, she took my face into her hands
And said I was beautiful.
I looked at her
And I believed her.

Once when I was eight,
My mother came home
with another doll.
It had pale skin. Green eyes.
A narrow frame.
She sat it with the others
And she said,
"We're going to need more shelves."
She put her arms around my shoulders
And said I was beautiful.
I looked at the dolls
And I believed her.

When I was ten
I started realizing
That my dolls and I were different
My skin was dark. My eyes brown.
I wasn't skinny.
When I asked my mother about it,
She dismissed it and said
"You'll look more like them when you're older."
And she hugged me
And said I was beautiful.
I looked down
And I believed her.

When I was fourteen,
My mother came home
And found me in my room
She sat next to me on my bed and
Looked at me closely.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Sweetie, you look like a clown."
She wiped the make-up off my face
And said I was beautiful.
I looked into her eyes
I told myself I believed her.

Now I am seventeen.
I look back
At all of my petty worries.
All of my meaningless thoughts.
And wonder why I ever cared.
I don't need my mother to tell me I'm beautiful anymore.
Because I know I am.
I read somewhere once,
"If only our eyes saw souls instead of bodies
How very different our ideals of beauty would be."
And I realized how uglier
the world would be.

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