If I'm so beautiful, why aren't I happy? I mean, I raise the aesthetic tone of the place. My face is an ornament. I see men struck, I mean struck, by my vivid hair, my eyes with their intense color, my chin, my full lips,what have you, and women scared that so many of the good looks of the world are gathered in one place and given to someone like me. I mean, I contribute.
And yes, it gives me satisfaction to pose in the mirror and know that what's there meets the standards for classic beauty, but away from looking eyes, what is that to me? Can gold as such fill an empty stomach? Can beauty as such fill an empty...? An empty what? A sense of self. It may be enough for others that I'm Miss Wowb! but for me, so what. I like it but didn't earn it. It's superficial, and not good company. I'm not ungrateful; it is fun sometimes to be the head-turner.
When I look inside I don't see the awesomeness that others see looking at my outside, and this discrepancy has been gnawing at me. What I care about, my sense of myself, is so amorphous and yawning I feel a kind of inner vertigo so acutey uncomfortable that to offset it I start to tear my hair.
I remember the day I took my hand out of my hair and my fingers were sprinkled with fine flakes like the dust of butterfly wings, but the color was the same copper everybody remarks on. I put one finger then another in my mouth and, oh, so good as they came out clean. The desperate disquiet ceased churning and I felt sudden deep calm. My hands fell to my lap and I sat as quiet as the statue of the Quaker woman at the state house.
I don't know why but the same thing happened the next time I felt uncomfortable in my skin: my spread hands like combs into my hair coming back flecked with vibrant color, and the relief of licking it down.
Once, rubbing hard on my cheeks, my palms became rosy, and another time, pressing my hands into my eyes, the heels of my hands took on blue. Wherever the color came from, consuming it transformed my mood, gave me a sense inside of what electrified others outside. A thrilling tranquillity, Especially at night, I couldn't get enough.
Nowadays though I notice fewer eyes turning to me. My hair seems less lustrous, less lively, my cheeks more sallow, my lips duller. I am becoming ordinary-looking.
I'd simply wanted to bolster my sense of self, but not at the expense of being beautiful. It's a unfair exchange. And what will I do when my hair is dull gray, lips loose and eyes dull. What will be left for me to take?
Ahh, I just rubbed the plump, pink cheek of a smiling baby with my knuckles, and notice flecks on my fingers. The taste--oh, so sweet.
And yes, it gives me satisfaction to pose in the mirror and know that what's there meets the standards for classic beauty, but away from looking eyes, what is that to me? Can gold as such fill an empty stomach? Can beauty as such fill an empty...? An empty what? A sense of self. It may be enough for others that I'm Miss Wowb! but for me, so what. I like it but didn't earn it. It's superficial, and not good company. I'm not ungrateful; it is fun sometimes to be the head-turner.
When I look inside I don't see the awesomeness that others see looking at my outside, and this discrepancy has been gnawing at me. What I care about, my sense of myself, is so amorphous and yawning I feel a kind of inner vertigo so acutey uncomfortable that to offset it I start to tear my hair.
I remember the day I took my hand out of my hair and my fingers were sprinkled with fine flakes like the dust of butterfly wings, but the color was the same copper everybody remarks on. I put one finger then another in my mouth and, oh, so good as they came out clean. The desperate disquiet ceased churning and I felt sudden deep calm. My hands fell to my lap and I sat as quiet as the statue of the Quaker woman at the state house.
I don't know why but the same thing happened the next time I felt uncomfortable in my skin: my spread hands like combs into my hair coming back flecked with vibrant color, and the relief of licking it down.
Once, rubbing hard on my cheeks, my palms became rosy, and another time, pressing my hands into my eyes, the heels of my hands took on blue. Wherever the color came from, consuming it transformed my mood, gave me a sense inside of what electrified others outside. A thrilling tranquillity, Especially at night, I couldn't get enough.
Nowadays though I notice fewer eyes turning to me. My hair seems less lustrous, less lively, my cheeks more sallow, my lips duller. I am becoming ordinary-looking.
I'd simply wanted to bolster my sense of self, but not at the expense of being beautiful. It's a unfair exchange. And what will I do when my hair is dull gray, lips loose and eyes dull. What will be left for me to take?
Ahh, I just rubbed the plump, pink cheek of a smiling baby with my knuckles, and notice flecks on my fingers. The taste--oh, so sweet.
No comments:
Post a Comment