My hair.

My waist.

The clothes I wear.

The way I think.

Not enough. It’s as if I am never enough.

My hair is a wild as a birds nest and as curly as spring

My shape. Not the perfect coke bottle everyone dreams.

My clothes. It's my style but to others I’m weird.

The way I think. Way too old for this generation.

Should I even be in this generation?

Should I even let him in?

Should I let him love me?

How can you let someone else love you when you can't love yourself?

But the way I feel when I'm with him.

He makes me love myself.

He shows me that I am worth it.

That my hair. My body. My clothes. And the way I think means something.

I am worth something.

Being able to look in the mirror, birds chirping in the background

mariachi blaring out of the windows of cars and houses.

And the murals. The murals.

The way the creamy paint glided along the canvas.

The beautiful murals.

The murals that explained it all.

The murals that held the key to another dimension.

The murals that showed me that in this horrible world.

There is some beauty.

He and the murals showed me that I am worthy

And now I can truly say that  I LOVE

My big beautiful hair.

My just perfect shape.

The stylish clothes I wear.

And the extraordinary way I think.

I loved, he loved, we loved.

Each other and the murals.