If I could erase the freckles, the scars, the stretch marks, the skin discoloration, the bruises, the bumps, the hormonal breakouts, and the bloat, I would be an “imperfectly” perfect woman of many colors. I am often my own worst enemy or critic. When I gaze at myself in an elongated mirror, I fall into a transitory trance … a mystified state of mind. I make several half turns to the right and several half turns to the left (with my shoulders slouched and my face without expression) only to remain broken and confused.
What makes one beautiful? Is it their near perfect silhouette? It could be their smooth and flawless complexion (no acne or blemishes, no scattered or uneven rows of hair above the lip or under the chin, no black-heads on the nose, or no skin bruising); their true hour-glass figure (more curves than a coke bottle); their long, dark brown, blonde, or black hair (no kinks or coils to tackle); their thigh gap (yes, I’m speaking of that “Peeping Tom” opening between a woman’s thighs); their perfectly pouted lips (no dry patches or cracks); or their slightly curvaceous and firm derriere (no wobble or jiggle).
The outer shell of a woman is seen as a very exquisite and elegant piece of fine art … a mold crafted only by the hands of an eminent deity. The core of a woman is where she holds her truth, her pain, her love, her wisdom, her courage, her strength, her pride, and her joy.
If seen through the eyes of the world, a perception of beauty would turn into words of hate, words of praise, or a faint misconception. Again, I ask, What makes one beautiful? I would answer if I could, but I won’t.