If I cared less, these work performance worst case scenarios wouldn’t weigh so heavily on my psyche.
Carefreeness would dismantle these moments to the studs.
Maybe if I had a prettier face, I’d care a little less I guess.
Maybe I wouldn’t be so unsure of myself, awkward, I’d care less how others perceived me.
This thought is not new to me, but maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to overcompensate with aspects of the self that I can shape and control. Things I can drill in practice, poor myself into.
Maybe I wouldn’t even have the need either.
Maybe I’d be an influencer, paid for being beautiful.
Something I fantasize about regularly.
Giving up all my faithless attempts to compensate for my lack of beauty and taking out loans for plastic surgery.
Maybe a nose job and lip filler.
Would I earn it all back and then some?
These are the thoughts of an ugly woman, I guess.
You know what else are?
Not wanting my body to get too nice or my hair too full because no one wants to be the girl with the ugly face and really nice body or hair.
I fell like it would maybe my ugliness pop out more.
I’d be doing others a favor.
Looking in a mirror reminds me
Life is a race that I started ten paces behind with my shoes tied.
What\'s worse is that the gap will only widen with age.
And by then it will be too late.
I will have never known beauty, but my attempts to grasp it will fall further and further away.
My fist clenching with emptiness.
My flimsy fingertips bending into my soft wrinkled palm.
The feeling too familiar.
I\'d remember the first I\'d felt it.