My hand rests on the mirror,
my body leaning over the sink.
Up close I can see every pimple
every false smile
that has ever crossed my face.
Even as I dress differently,
even as my acne just begins to clear up.
Even as I put effort into losing weight.
I'm not beautiful
nor do I wish to be.
I have a pimple for every stare
every lashing comment
every sneer thrown in my direction.
I have a fake smile
for every fake compliment
anybody has ever paid me.
And I never want to be beautiful
so I never have doubts.
So I'll always know who my real friends are.
When they comfort me,
when they're there for me,
"beautiful" is irrelevant.
Because they make me feel Gorgeous.