It seems like the uphill battle of ugly winds forever upward.
The mirror is UNkind; it's depiction of reality is at odds with the sweet, romantic saga I've tried to delude myself with for my day to day existence. Though even my delusion is a gossamer shadow--it is exposed in a soft breeze.
I have always been he quintessential ugly duckling. I spent the greater part of my childhood hiding behind gigantic plastic glasses and at least thirty extra pounds. I have never fully recovered from the cruel playground torment I was subjected to in my early years. I am still that girl alone on the swings; dateless on prom night.
I've done what I can. The glasses are long gone, for one. Mascara and lipstick are godsends. But even as I type, I am distracted by what I am convinced are unusually portly sausage fingers and less than desirable thighs. I have a laundry list of hates to match my catalog of wishes and a bottomless cauldron in which I can stir them.
My truth and my beauty seem to live at opposite ends of the same vessel, yet never seem to cross paths. I want harmony in both--to live in a song.
I want to set ablaze these unforgiving notions; to burn a trail through memory.
I want to be the swan.
And, please, to believe it.
