The Ugly Beauty

My eyes sparkle, bright, electric blue. My hair naturally shimmers deep, golden auburn with lemony, sunshine highlights. My figure is small-- thin arms, contoured abdominals, and muscular, athletic legs. My hands are pretty-- delicate, tapered fingers, decorated with rings of silver, turquoise, and sapphire blue. My skin is soft and fresh, young and supple, exuding light, fruity smells mixed with vanilla. But everything about me is imperfect. Everything you see is ugly, vile, and gross.

I tighten my jaw as I fumble with change at the coffee shop, screaming at the cashier with my mind, “Don’t look at me!” When the attractive man at the bar looks my way, I brush my hair out of my eyes, but let it fall back quickly as I pray, “Please don’t see how ugly I am!”My hairdresser says I’m stunning like my mother. My father’s friends ask, “How is a beauty queen like you still single?” My aunts say how jealous they are of my figure, my eyes, my face. Lies. I can still feel the red, raw mountain ranges of acne that covered my face when I was between twelve and seventeen. I can still hear the boy at the bus stop shouting after me, “Hey four eyes!” and “See you tomorrow, pizza face!” The invisible tears that I never let stream down my face when no one asked me to slow dance still burn with shame. I’m ugly. I’ll always be ugly.