I think to myself that if I could really be her
I’d never feel insecure again.
My life would be without issue
because I’d be so pretty that nothing else would matter.
My fingertips would be crafted out of daisies,
holding my hand would feel like walking through a meadow,
and there’d be nothing more to do than enjoy the greenery.
I start to think water would start to collect itself just to reflect my image.
There’d be a race of molecules causing much more than surface tension.
I believe I’d stare in the mirror so long
I wouldn’t need to know anything but how to bat my eyelashes.
I’d document my entire life and post every photo I featured in on VSCO.
I don’t think I’d get mad at myself for wearing sweatpants in public,
that I’d play in the game of comparison.
I’d stop caring about the game everyone always loses.
But then I step back and think,
and I wonder if her sadness would shock me.
Heather Chandler put it best when she sang,
“No one thinks a pretty girl has feelings.”
How often do we remove the brain from another girl’s head
simply because we want to be them?
Maybe, I think,
it’s somehow easier for me to make a guess in the darkness
than a declaration in the light.
The fact of the matter is there is no “really.”
There is no honesty within the “If.”
I could say, “If…” all day long and nothing would be done if I didn’t stop.
To tell the truth, if I can’t accept myself,
I can’t expect anyone else to do so,
and that is an “If” I can do something about.