When I think of beauty, I never see a face.
I never see an ideal or structure of being. I see she who can stand with her head held high, despite the animosity of those blinded by her light.
I picture a dazzling spirit, a wounded warrior, a survivor of all that is ugly, hidden behind facades of sanity.
Beauty is infinite in all of its flaws, not restricted by standards, boundaries, or social laws. Beauty means to never step foot out of the muck, to land face-down in dirt only to build a castle made of gravel, gum, and cigarette butts.
Beauty is so much more than the flesh we’re manufactured in; true beauty is not a tangible force, it’s an entire experience and spiritual recourse.
Beauty is a punch to the face, a bruised ego, and a half a bottle of mace. Beauty is impenetrable, but equally as broken; when you think of beauty, you think of elegance—but I think of outspoken.
Beauty is as strong as a heat-resistant casserole dish, as powerful as the vacuum that our mothers picked up the slack with, as patient as Grandma holding a remote in her hand, wondering what life would’ve been like if she didn’t live in the shadow of a man.
Beauty is walking out the door with no place to go, fully aware that being nowhere feels so much better than being a random someone in an abusive everywhere.
Beauty looks like complications, aggravations, boredom, and realizations. Beauty is tired of never being viewed as the beast, but beauty is more dangerous, because it’s the beast you can’t see.
I am beauty, and beauty is me—and it’s not my obligation to be “pretty” or “feminine” for anyone.