Beauty

I look my best when I'm nestled between tall blades of grass, with the sunlight splashing freckles across my face like it did when I was 9.

I look best in the eyes I wore at 17, which dwelled in awe of the sky, always thirsting for immensity.

When I smile and feel sunburns tugging at the skin of my cheekbones, I am beautiful.

Since that girl in the mirror began mimicking me,
I have seen her loneliness pressed against the glass.

I adored her. I couldn’t help it.
Maybe they’d let her out
if she dreamed hard enough,
if she got braces, or bangs, or a nose job.

Sunshine bends the sounds of my memories to gold,
and for that, I am grateful.
Eyes linger if you let them.
But I can feel when they forget me
when my body fades into the sheets.

I ask for beauty to accept possession of my eyes. I want to rebuild the world with more colour.

I wish for eyes to coat me in beautiful, I want to be adored.