I am marvelous, I am rare. I am flawless in my imperfections. My blemishes don’t mar me, they make me.
That’s why it didn’t hurt to hear them snicker.
I was wearing my favorite shirt, and the new glasses I was so happy with. I could see everything so much clearer, it was like fresh air had poured itself into my eyeballs and I could see with the clarity of the clouds. Even the pink veins in my eyes seemed to throb with new precision.
I am stunning, I am delicate.
I’m not anything spectacular, just an average mousy kid with fingers too short and a jaw too square. But I felt lovely that day, and confident. My mascara wasn’t perfect. And my shirt wasn’t designer.
But I felt wonderful.
That’s why when I heard the girls across from me, the one with perfectly sculpted eyebrows and a pouting mouth and the other with ombre hair and designer backpack, talking about me, I wasn’t hurt.
That’s why when one murmured to the other, “That shirt just doesn’t work on her, and it shows,” I wasn’t heartbroken.
That’s why, when her perfect pouting mouth stopped simpering and started sneering, I didn’t shrink into my shoulders.
I am gorgeous, I am new.
That’s why when she whispered, “I know, do you think she notices how bad she looks?” I didn’t have to hold back tears.
That’s why I didn’t ever not wear that shirt again.
That’s why I definitely didn’t cry myself to sleep that night.
No. Certainly not.
I am superb, I am great.
That’s what I tell the brown-haired girl with eyes the color of mud in the mirror. I tell her every day. I don’t think she believes me.
I am pretty, I am excellent.
Until it loses all meaning.
Because beautiful lies cut more deeply than ugly truths ever will.