The human perception of beauty has seriously changed since the dawn of ages. And as a member of the female population, since I was as small as I can remember, one of the most often things anyone has told me was: “What a beautiful girl you are! Yes you are! Look at those blue eyes!” . But maybe I am one of the few left, who even during puberty, take no comfort in hearing those words said to me once again. It doesn’t matter if they think I am, or are just being polite… It does not comfort me… For I feel that all our family friends, whom I want to know better, from whom I want to hear jolly stories of my parent’s youth, take no interest in my character; only to build a relationship with me based on how curly my hair is, or how my eyes are still blue, or how I’ve grown into an ‘evolved’ young woman.
It is not my opinion what the general media thinks I think. A perfect body is not perfection to me. Pointy bones peaking under a thin layer of dull, dead skin is not beauty to me. Someone who has two faces: one in the morning and one on the rest of the day, is not an idol to me. A girl who died because she wouldn’t eat doesn’t wake pity in me; it wakes guilt: for she just needed a friend, and I would be most happy to be that for her. But I wasn’t there… I never met her…
I sometimes fear that what I see in the mirror is not real. I see a curly girl who has normal weight , but still has the tummy that reveals she’ll never give up on gummy bears. She looks at me with her blue-ish eyes, deep in thoughts 24/7 how, oh how, shall she ever give up on him and move on, or how come every man she likes is, if not identical, quite similar to him. Is what I see what you see? Is my hair curly enough, or too much? Does my appearance strike you as odd? Will you give up on me for it, before the first ‘Hello?’
Tell me I’m beautiful once more… I beg of you. Make me believe that nothing else of me is worth loving.
satelitecrimson 