I hate my face.
The asymmetrical sides engaged in a war of attrition
a never ending competition of which eye can be more tired
which eyebrow more scraggly.
I hate my nose
awkwardly long and bulbous
undecided between whether it wants to turn up when I frown
or turn down when I smile.
I hate my chin
cowering under my lips
pointlessly,
for they are so thin
that they disappear when I smile
as if ashamed of my happiness.
Maybe I sound vain
but sometimes I look at a picture
and try to hold back the tears
as I pick apart every miniscule detail
which only I can notice
until I can’t recognize myself anymore
and wish for for a world without mirrors
or
beauty standards.
But
What if I could love my face?
How my eyes crinkle into stars when I laugh
and burn with courage
when I speak?
My eyebrows
that dance around my forehead
when I tell a good story?
My nose alerts me to
the scent of pumpkin muffins
wafting up to my room
before lunch has even crossed my mind.
And my lips fold into my skin
to let me smile extra wide
a feat that would be impossible
without my chin.
Some days are better than others
but in the end
it’s just a face
and it doesn’t even scratch the surface
of who I really am.