Okay, I say. Okay, I'm beautiful. Okay, okay. It's okay.
Because my eyebrows do not arch, clever and feminine, across my brow; no, they slope and sag, and hover flatly over my eyes, one cocked a little bit higher than the other no matter what expression I'm making.
Because my lips are not plump and voluptuous, they do not beckon men to fantasize, instead they disappear at the edges and smudge in pixel dots of purple skin, they dip to different angles on either side.
Because my breasts are not full and proud, because my stomach is not flat and firm, no. No, where one should've had more, there is less, and where one should have had less, there is more.
Because my skin is not creamy, because it won't hold a tan, won't conceal its slithering little blue veins; instead it blotches and breaks, dries up and leaves me itching.
For these things, in spite of them, because of them, I am beautiful, I see where it is.
I see it in pictures. I have a crooked smile, not because my mouth twists, but because my teeth don't seem to sit still. I guard it when I think about it.
But in pictures, in happy, candid little snapshots, I'm not thinking about my mobile teeth. That, the candid smile, is something sneaky, it becomes shameless. I see the beauty in myself when I'm happy. I could fall in love with that girl whose face is squeezed up with wrinkles that form puddles under her eyes, I could fall in love with that girl surrounded by her friends, making a silly expression, bottle in hand, concerned with nothing but how good she feels in the moment.
I could fall so hard in love with that girl. And I think it's the love she's got already that makes her suddenly stunning.