Like a stain of wrong colored paint that will not wash away,
She is the foul wart on her elbow.
Reeking of the blemish she cannot change, she cannot hide.
She lives day by day with watchful eyes of the beating flesh, elegant legs, slim waist...
The magazines burn her through the heart,
Pleading with her to collapse like a wilting flower.
I would acknowledge her natural beauty,
If only for an instant she would accept herself.
But I cannot give her my steady glance,
If she remembers the ideal pretty none of us can be.
I would touch the lone tear under her eye,
If it meant she understood her rounding shape, curved thighs, full cheeks.
Her beauty, wart and all...
Is the perfect her if only she could see.
YOU ARE READING
My Words By Audrey B. Holley
RandomI'm spilling my insides. Perhaps, you feel the same. A heart that wishes to harmonize. Feelings that roll around. How outcasts are wrong...all because of a shirt. A lonely world. Note to reader: I add in whatever is on my mind, so this is incomplete...
