What is pretty, I wonder as I stare at her smile.

Is it stick-straight hair?

Is it perfectly clear skin?

Is it a size 00 waist?

I have none of these things, yet people say that I’m pretty.

What do they see that I don’t?

I don’t see pretty in my mirror,

Not in the wavy hair and scarred skin,

And a stomach that’s only a size 1, still too big for pretty.

Some say pretty is on the inside.

If so, I still don’t have it.

I’ve said far too many things,

Caused far too many tears to be pretty.



What does pretty get you?

More chances in life? (Yes)

More suitors at your door? (Yes)

More adoration, more hatred? (Yes, Yes)

But how do people know what pretty is?

People say that I’m pretty,

But I look at my past written on my arms and think,

“Surely this isn’t pretty.”

And how am I to know, here, now,

In this time filled with so many voices,

All screaming, shouting their opinions.

How is anyone to know?



What is pretty?