I don't know why many women are subconscious about their appearance
They're far better looking than I am.
I'm not unconfident, i just feel that there is a sense of truth behind this statement
It desperately needed to be said

You
And your squinty eyes
You
And your pretty smile
You
And your tall height
You
And your skin whiter than mine

All these things
Are what I physically like
About you
But you're more than that
That adds more thing about you
Do know that
I love you
Because you're
**YOU

He called me beautiful,
said it matter of fact.

I have grown to believe,
I have made myself learn,
that I am more than a face,
that people are more than that.

I am a soul,
I am thoughts and words.
I am a daughter of God-
And then flesh.

I don't need validation,
because it is empty.
Shouldn't need to be told who I am.

But sometime's we're weaker,
and lose sight of our centre.
He called me beautiful.
And I remembered.

Is god punishing me? A string of twisted truths.

A feeling of numbness with sharp bursts of pain, intertwined with goosebumps, a cold sinking feeling.

How does one determine something forgotten in the past as a history, when feelings are still vividly aware and controlling the same enslaved mind for years upon years.

Is there any escape?

She scrapes her scalp with the metal teeth
That promised to bring her beauty,
Then destroys
Each ringlet of pulchritude with burning tongues of fakery.
She slaps orange liquid on to her pale face,
Desperately disguising every perfect imperfection.
Darkening her sight and reddening her speech,
She puts up the barriers to prevent
Her emotions from revealing themselves.
Squeezing into pieces of bright cloth that accentuate her figure,
She smiles at her superficial curves.
Staring vainly into the mirror,
She grins.
Because she no longer resembles herself.

I have a wish
I wish everybody had a blank face
until we come to the point
that we know we genuinely love them
so we would not base our love for one another on appearance
but on our inward display

tell me that my hair is darker than the night
and that you'd rake your fingers through it's black ink
   tell me that you wouldn't change it for the world
that it contrasts my skin and it takes the color out of
                                                                            dominoes

   tell me that my brown eyes are fine and
they will never, not ever lose sight of you. tell me
  that though they tremble and waver now that
i will catch glimpses of beautiful things, if not now
                                                                              soon

The hair that falls so beautifully and balanced,
Perfectly placed.

Those eyes glistening like glittering glass,
Singing a million songs with just a glance.

Your lips so graceful and elegant,
Prettily poised.

But you don't see the reality of it,
Your flaws.

The hair too fluffy and light,
Poison it with paste.

Tear filled eyes shattered and broken,
The sound of pain and upset.

Lips cold and dry, barely moving,
Soulless and still.

A smudge
appears in the corner
of the eye,
of the view,
of sight.
Wipe away
the tear-less dripping drop.
Amethyst coated
fingers nervously working
to achieve perfection,
hoping that no one payed attention
to the flaw,
the flaw that is one among many,
the flawed that is one among many.

Maybe her make-up is smudged,
maybe she sees herself as one.

How funny is it
That to be blonde
May
Mean a myriad of things

One who is blonde is
Demure
Pure
Alluring
Matronly
Dull
But never boring

Blonde is thought to be a mark of perfection
Strong Nordo-centricism
Stronger white supremacy

Are there not a brunette with the same attributes
Are there not matronly persons with red hair
Or black
Or pink
Or no hair at all

Why does such arbitration continually define us
Mere colors shape who we are
Far more
Than a more fair method
Talent
Devotion
Piety
Character

Who decided this
How do we fix it
Do we