Wow, I'm so ugly.
I hate the way my nose bends—
a slight bump, an unsteady line.
I hate my eyes, tired and misplaced,
as if they’re not meant for my face.
I hate my lips,
one smaller, one fuller,
a mismatch, a puzzle I can’t solve.
I hate my skin, red and bumpy,
a field of flaws where I wish for
porcelain smoothness,
Imperfect perfection.
I feel like the only one
with skin so wrong.
I hate my eyebrows, half-blonde,
uneven lines that never align.
I hate my jawline, soft and shapeless,
Like my face is a murmur instead of a statement.
I hate my lashes,
straight and faint,
refusing to curl
or even be seen.
And I hate my hair, my weight,
my chest, my arms, my stomach,
my legs, my calves.
Every piece of me feels wrong.
I’m a mix of different puzzles, pieces that don’t fit nor belong.
When I post a picture,
all I see is everything I hate.
I ruin every frame,
a needle in a haystack.
I hate the mirror.
I don’t know the face staring back.
I don’t want to know it.
Don’t look at me.
I know how they see me—
every stranger, every glance.
They’ve never seen someone so ugly.
And everyone else is so normal, so beautiful.
I want to disappear,
to hide from the world,
from myself.
My best friend once told me
she was insecure.
I asked her why.
She listed everything:
her eyes, her nose, her skin,
her eyebrows, her hair, her ears,
her neck, her jawline, her stomach,
her legs, her style—
on and on.
But if only she could see herself
through my eyes.
If only the world could see her.
She’s so foolish, it feels.
It’s hard to believe someone so intelligent
could be so wrong.
I tell her,
her mind deceits.
She is one in a million.
Her eyes glow,
framing her rosy cheeks
and that smile—
Her face is a mosaic,
painted by generations of love,
designed with precision,
destined to one day see
a new face mixed with hers,
a continuation of beauty.
God sculpted her with care,
a piece of creation
amongst the stars.
Her veins trace lightning bolts.
Her pores mirror the strawberry’s skin,
grown from her mother’s soil.
Her hairline echoes the stem of a leaf, the same stem that provides the leaf its purpose and its life.
The grooves of a tree
match the lines of her fingers,
her lungs draw in
the breath of the same trees
that love her so much.
And who dares call nature ugly?
Millions travel to see its wonders,
the wonders she carries
every single day.
And it isn’t just her surface.
Inside, she blooms:
her patience, her loyalty,
her worry and emotion,
her art, her happiness, her sorrow.
It lives in her and
in the strangers she loves.
In every picture,
I’m grateful to exist
in the same memory as her,
to witness her beauty
in that forever moment.
And I like for her to imagine
That one morning,
her mother’s water broke,
and nothing else mattered—
only her.
The world welcomed a new light,
a new face,
a new love.
For her to call herself ugly
feels almost selfish, a defect,
a blindness to the masterpiece she is.
If only she could see what I see.
And maybe one day she will.
She’ll look in the mirror,
feel her heart swell,
She’ll realize…
And when she does, she’ll repeat these words to me, and make me repeat:
Wow, I’m so beautiful.
Side note:
I don’t think I’m ugly, haha. I am really confident and love myself, I think I’m really pretty. That being said, the insecurities from the beginning were things I used to hate the most and how I used to feel, this poem is how I look at myself differently, I AM my best friend.