Beauty

Once when I was seven, My mother came home with a doll. It had blonde hair. Blue eyes. A narrow frame. She handed it to me and she said, "A princess for my princess." Then, she took my face into her hands And said I was beautiful. I looked at her And I believed her. Once when I was eight, My mother came home with another doll. It had pale skin. Green eyes. A narrow frame. She sat it with the others And she said, "We're going to need more shelves." She put her arms around my shoulders And said I was beautiful. I looked at the dolls And I believed her. When I was ten I started realizing That my dolls and I were different My skin was dark. My eyes brown. I wasn't skinny. When I asked my mother about it, She dismissed it and said "You'll look more like them when you're older." And she hugged me And said I was beautiful. I looked down And I believed her. When I was fourteen, My mother came home And found me in my room She sat next to me on my bed and Looked at me closely. Her eyes narrowed. "Sweetie, you look like a clown." She wiped the make-up off my face And said I was beautiful. I looked into her eyes I told myself I believed her. Now I am seventeen. I look back At all of my petty worries. All of my meaningless thoughts. And wonder why I ever cared. I don't need my mother to tell me I'm beautiful anymore. Because I know I am. I read somewhere once, "If only our eyes saw souls instead of bodies How very different our ideals of beauty would be." And I realized how uglier the world would be.