I want to be pretty, no

I want to be beautiful.

I want a slender body and a perfect nose,

and perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect everythings.

I want to be beautiful.

To have the guy I like run his fingers through my hair and telling me that I’m beautiful.

To have him hold me close and tell me that I’m beautiful and that he loves me so much and to actually mean it.

I want to absolutely melt at his every word

because I know he means it from the very bottom pit of his heart

all the way to the heavens of his mind.

I want his word to be fire.

Not the burn-the-world kind, but the hearth kind.

The cuddling-by-the-fireplace kind, the scented-candle kind, if you will.

I want people to see me.

Maybe if I was pretty, they would.

Then I wouldn’t get ignored in favour of the prettier girl,

people would listen and I wouldn’t be alone, wailing into the night.

I’m tired of the cold.

I’m tired of wrapping myself in a dozen blankets and not feel the warmth.

I’m tired of playing make believe, tired of pretending that the guy I like is running his fingers through my hair and telling me that I’m beautiful,

playing make believe that he’s holding me close and telling me that I’m beautiful and pretty and that he loves me so much and to actually mean every goddamn word–

I just want to be pretty.

Then maybe, I wouldn’t have to play make believe anymore.