I wish no one ever told me that I’m beautiful. Ever.
Because what is beauty? Is it really something you can see? Is it something you can touch?
I look in the mirror and I see a human, a woman with a face and body. I’m perfectly normal. What makes me beautiful in your eyes?
My Dear Grandmother, you told me once that my beauty is my worth. You weren’t talking about the real beauty, though. You meant the physical appearance. And people have been calling me beautiful ever since. I believe them, so I enter a room and I want to be admired, I want people to notice me, I want people to talk about me. If they don’t, my life is done. I’m done.
I put too much effort in something that doesn’t exist, in something that most of the people don’t care about. I’m drawn on a wall where you can see me, indeed, but in fact you cannot speak to me at all. I’m fake, made of paper.
I wish you never called me beautiful.
How should I live up to that now? You’ve ruined my life… You’ve ruined my life because you make me want to be beautiful. But I’m done. I won’t put a lipstick on only because society expects me to.