Toying with the idea of beauty.

You have two teeth that braces couldn’t straighten, and a smile

that is only half of what it could be.

There are patches threatening holes on the inseam of your jeans

because your thighs rub together now, friction you are in no way used to.

Weight management is your new hobby, and you have learned

eighteen substitutes for carbs, but not one

that makes you feel full of joy.

You are too much for one person, and too little

for another, a dichotomy that feeds your insecurities on your bad days

and teaches you to say “fuck it” when you’re strong.

A trail of broken hearts bleed in your footsteps, including your own.

You don’t visit with your mother. (You don’t feel sad about it.)

The world lies at your feet, the entire world, huge and glorious

and trembling. You watch your favorite movie for the 13th time instead.

There is enough disappointment within you to rival the seven seas

and you go to sleep wracking your brains: what could I have done


You are a clinking, clanking collection of collagenous confusion.

You are what I mean when I say ‘beauty.’

The End

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