I’m Not Cute

I usually write something vaguely romantic and full of longing for birthdays—especially for Asher’s—but this year, I’m so caught up in my own…I’m not even sure if “fears” is the right word…that I wrote this instead.

Not a fan of the title (see above), but I don’t have anything better.


I’m not a shallow girl,
I’m no imitation
plastic
sugar-coated dream.
I’ve been to hell and back.
Scarred?
You’d best believe.

I don’t trust
the Guardians of the Gates—
one slip,
one wrong tone
and it’s too late.

They think they can help,
but they don’t know
the power they wield.
They see smiles and
I see flashes
of razor-bladed kindness
and the end of hope.

They don’t know
that their words
are a paintbrush.

Choose rightly and
I am depicted as my true self:
tested and annealed;
repeatedly thrown into the fire
and not perished.

Choose wrongly and
I’m a cute little girl,
constructed of maple cream
and pastel swirls.

Not thirty-five,
but five.

A two-dimensional princess
who has never been hurt,
screamed at,
abused
or wondered if death
would be preferable to life.

A pillow of sweet fluff,
oblivious to pain.

 

Nay, Guardians,
turn your gazes aside.
If you cannot reveal to him
the me that I am,
I’d rather keep to myself
and hide.

It is better to be alone
and unfulfilled
than to be coupled
and misunderstood.

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