The little specks of green in my eyes,
They cloud over before the storm of gray.
I don't usually like to look at myself in the mirror,
Too much expectations and too much disappointments.
I do like my eyes.
If you could take the time,
You would see a universe of stories.
You move down to my mouth and face,
Nothing much but a disgrace.
I am not my mother,
In more ways than one.
Her face curves and glows with the morning sun.
Brilliant, you can tell her emotions from a glance.
Happy, the face radiates perfectly.
Sad, the brows crinkle but the expression is still beautiful.
Beautiful, a funny word for something that can't be counted
Or contained.
As someone once said,
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Thoughts rack my brain that no one has beheld me.
How could they when there is a world of beautiful women?
Smart women with passion and dreams rule this world.
They are beautiful in the sense that
They are not afraid.
Not afraid of how they look,
How they dress,
Or the way they speak.
The mirror tells me that I not what I feel inside.
I am afraid.
Scared, to be seen as beautiful even.
But maybe, just maybe there is a hope.
The mirror me is not the only me,
The girl with eyes full of stories.
Mirror me can still smile,
Can still breathe.
I hold this hope close to my heart that will be enough.
