Don't look in my eyes.
There are deep caverns within filled with broken parts and misunderstood memos,
Shelf upon shelf of stories,
Tear stained pages and torn bindings.
Don't look through my windows.
I haven't tidied up enough today.
Just look at my outside parts,
My beautiful features and
Tell me I'm pretty.
Tell me you like me.
Tell me I'm good enough just as I am.
These outside parts won't stay pretty forever.
And what then?
I'll have to dig through the musty depths and pull out the bent perceptions, the convoluted fairytales, and the misconceived understandings of what it means to be loveable and to love.
I'll have to unshackle the little girl from her chains of shame and misconstrued obligatory sexuality.
I'll hold her in my arms and tell her it's okay to be ugly,
That I love her no matter what,
That she doesn't have to do anything
Or say anything
Or be anything
To be worthy of love.
And together we'll dig through the broken pieces and we'll hot glue them together and paint and glitter them and create an hommage to who we thought we were and we'll dance around it in circles,
First counterclockwise and then sunwise,
While singing at the top of our lungs
Until we collapse
In a great bear hug
At the altar of our transformation.