I am not what they call pretty,
not the kind that turns heads or holds light.
My face doesn't bloom under compliments,
there are no delicate features here,
no soft lines to trace with longing eyes.
I move through the world unnoticed,
a shadow against the backdrop of brighter things.
My reflection is quiet,
without the glow that others seem to wear,
just skin and bones,
ordinary and unremarkable.
Beauty is a language I don't speak,
a song I never learned to sing.
I watch from the edges,
while others shine, their laughter full of ease.
They don't know the hollow I carry,
the weight of invisibility,
the way the world overlooks
what doesn't fit its mold.
I am not pretty,
but I am something else,
something the mirror doesn't know.
I am the steady pulse beneath the surface,
the untamed, the unpolished.
I am the rough earth,
the dark sky before the dawn,
full of quiet storms no one sees.
There's a different kind of light
that lives in me,
one that doesn't flicker or fade.
It doesn't ask to be admired,
doesn't need to be called beautiful.
It just is.
And maybe that is enough.
But what if it's not
