the woman I aspired to be
was a dandelion that bloomed from my deepest insecurities.
I looked up to a woman I did not know,
solely because she was unlike me.
destroyed myself for an unattainable fantasy.
as a girl I felt incongruous to my home;
caramel amongst white,
curls that I loathed and
straightened daily.
I had more crushes on pretty girls than boys.
I’m not sure how
or why,
but around the age of ten
I gradually withdrew into myself.
and despite my quiet character,
my newfound thoughts were loud.
relentless.
hateful.
a nonexistent woman
birthed from fantasies and insecurities
is who I felt I had to be.
she was beautiful, as villainesses are beautiful.
seductive in nature,
each movement imbued with grace
and confidence.
quiet still, but in a cynical manner.
she did not love nor trust
anyone but herself.
she was a character, who, in my mind,
contested the artistry of the sun and stars.
today I am nothing
like the woman I thought I would be.
my mind is full of thoughts that flutter off my tongue before they are fully formed.
my movements truly have no direction,
no grace to speak of.
I love thoroughly
and euphorically
because I know the sadness of feeling unloved.
I am nothing
except my strengths and shortcomings.
I am beautiful,
solely because I know my girlhood self
would adore the woman I am today.
