Blue Eyes Aren't Enough

 

 

I am ashamed of my looks.

Every day I wake up

And pinch the fat around my stomach and

Wrap my thumb and pinky around my wrist

To make sure they touch.

 

I make a face in the mirror

And run my finger lightly across one of my acne scars.

My mother buys me countless products

To clear up my face

But none work.

 

Putting on my black work shirt reminds me

Of one of the other times I've worn all black.

 

I was helping my sister with a photography project.

I was the subject, unwilling in my head yet all smiles for her.

She made me wear a black shirt and stand next to the window.

Camera snaps,

I blink,

And my ugliness

Is forever captured in film.

 

After half an hour of posing, I am done.

My mother and sister ooh and aah over the photos.

You look so pretty, they say,

And even though I protest,

There is a little glow in me that feels just slightly better.

 

A few weeks later, my sister brings home a poster-size copy of one of the photos.

It is rolled up and bound with rubber bands.

As the photo paper unfurls,

My anxious heart flutters a bit.

Finally, the photo is laid out on the table

And I find that

 

She has edited my face.

 

My acne and scars are gone,

And my cheeks are pink,

Strawberry, not my typical vanilla.

My eyes have been made bluer,

And my skin is more even,

But it is not me.

Why?

 

See, she says, that's what you would look like without pimples!

Oh.

 

I muster enthusiasm and tell her that she did a great job,

But the glow in me

Has been snuffed.

 

Later in my room, as I run my finger across my acne scars

And pinch my stomach

And wrap my pinky and thumb around my wrist,

I wonder

Why am I not pretty enough as I am?

Why must my face be edited and altered

To be acceptable?

 

I don't let the tears come

Because they will make my blue eyes bluer,

And I don't want to look like that photo.