That day, my mother told me to go away and die because I wasn't who she wanted me to be.the one who study well.
She called me ugly, because am a shadow compared to her own beauty. And that was the moment I first understood... I wasn't pretty.
My happy heart suffered its first crack.
That day, my friends pointed out my brown skin, whispering that I wasn't fair like them. And that was the moment I understood... I wasn't beautiful.
My happy heart suffered its second crack.
That day, I told my parents I loved poetry and music, but they told me to look at my books instead. They said poems and lyrics were nothing but a waste of time.
They handed me grey pencils when all I ever needed was colours. And that was the moment I understood... I wasn't enough.
My happy heart suffered its third crack.
That day, my mother told me to eat less or I would get fat you are already brown because she can't say am her daughter in front of people.
I stopped eating the things I loved, starving myself to become someone they wouldn't criticise. And that was the moment I understood... I wasn't important.
My happy heart suffered its fourth crack.
Eventually, I began to see myself entirely through other's eyes. I forgot that I was actually beautiful in my own way.
That night, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and whispered, "Why am I so ugly?"
And finally, my happy heart broke into pieces.
Did I ever ask to be born? How can I truly be alive when the one who gave me life tells me to die? I cannot betray them.
Maybe i don't deserve this life like they said.
I wish to be beautiful atleast..in my next life..
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142,482 Literary Works • 678,052 Reviews
Hun, trust me, you deserve everything you have and much, much, much more. You beautifully portrayed the suffocating feeling of not being enough and always being expected to be born beautiful. What I say, though, is: who's beautiful and who's ugly? I know that's a question that's been asked thousands of times and the popular viewpoint is that there isn't a standard, and even with it, how do u know if the standards a true standard when life is all abt comparison? But I think a better way to think abt it is this: each person's skin colour or scars aren't a measure of beauty, but rather a story. Each face is a tapestry woven together from happy accidents and memories. That's at least how I try to think about life. That happy heart of yours broke into pieces, but I just know that you will find someone, someone who will tape those pieces together painstakingly, and yes, you may never fully recover, but that someone will call you beautiful and you'll realise that they never meant your physical appearance.
... Hmm