When you say that I am beautiful,
please,
tell me why.
I don’t want you to just say it to flatter me,
or make me blush,
it will work in your favor, sure,
but if you’re going to tell me that I am beautiful,
make me believe it.

Because, I wake up with myself every morning,
and I know what my hair looks like,
and I have probably seen the way my eyes look more than you have.
I know how my eyebrows look, simply because I have refused to pluck them,
my ears and nose are rather average,
and I have memorized the small gaps and overlaps of my teeth,
so I know what I look like,
you don’t need to remind me of my facial features,
you’re going to have to try a little harder.

I know I talk with my hands,
and I know I stutter from time to time,
I trip when I walk, over nothing but my toes,
and I bite my nails, did you know that?
I pick at my cuticles when I am nervous
and crack my knuckles in any emotional state.
I probably giggle too much and smile way too often,
and overuse the words, “I love you”
are these things that make me beautiful,
or just make me who I am?
I don’t know,
you’re going to have to make me believe it.

I make things, out of junk and I cannot draw a simple stick figure,
I spend way too much time writing, and not enough time talking,
and I can’t even whistle a short melody,
let alone sing one.
My heart is everywhere but beating inside my chest,
and I look at world maps and think about the different faces
in each different place
and I wonder if these hearts feel worthy of love sometimes.

Take a look at my thoughts, dig
and dig
and dig
deeper,
do you still think I am beautiful?
Why?