FicWad

I hate being pretty.

And you'll hate me for saying it, too--
that's why I hate it, sometimes,
because I can't say anything without being told I'm wrong.
Couldn't say to the girl on the train that I hide my hair
because if I don't no one sees anything else,
Can't tell her that I don't want anyone to call me pretty,
because once anyone sees pretty they don't look any more,
they don't see smart, or funny, or alone.

I hate being pretty-
I told her anyway, tell you anyway,
and she told me I was crazy;
How could I not want boys looking at me the way they do?
And okay, maybe she had the opposite problem-
boys never look at her, she claims,
but at least when one does, he's asking her out;
No boy's ever asked me anywhere but a bed.

I hate being pretty
I told my mother once too,
and she acted like I was just a child to be humored,
Treated me the same way at eighteen with mental scars
as she did at eight with imaginary friends
She told me of course, whatever you want buglet,
And then kept taking me to the store to ask
if I'd found a brand of perfume yet that I like
or mascara, or hairstyle, or dresses,
or what I think of some prettyboy actor,
that I've never heard of and don't want to.

I hate being pretty
Because then I'm supposed to work at it,
to be careful and not damage my nails
or scar my skin,
or wear colors that clash,
Because it would be such a shame
to waste how pretty I could be.
No one has ever told me to work at studying
because it would be a shame to waste the discoveries
that only I believe I might make.
The world needs more eye candy,
but apparently a cure for cancer or vaccine for AIDS
isn't really that important.

I hate being pretty,
And don't ask me, but by what you've always told me
I'm not.
I let the sun dry and break my hair,
each nail is as long as it grows since the last time it broke,
and as each scar fades I find new ones
larger and uglier,
that make me look more wild, more strong, less girl,
And each one chases a few of the boys away,
but leaves plenty others,
and some draw girls in to replace the boys anyway,
and that's a little too close to a stereotype for me to be sure I approve.

I hate being pretty,
But only sometimes,
because now I'm old enough to know what cynicism means,
and that it can be funny to keep people off balance,
and watch them deal with someone they can make about as much sense of
as they can make sense of frost.
And it can be funny
To once a year put on the dress they always say I should,
to cover the scars with makeup and smiles,
and watch every one of them panic like there's a tornado around me,
because now that I've done what they want they don't know what to do.

I didn't want to be like this.
I didn't want to be cynical just so I can stand people,
I didn't want to love scars because they make people go away.
I didn't want to be the girl that even my parents assume is a self-centered slut
for no reason other than because I could get away with it.
I didn't want to be the girl whose real friends are online
because they're the only ones I can trust to be friends with me
and not my body.

I hate being pretty,
And maybe you're right,
and it's just something wrong with me,
because I don't want what I'm supposed to,
(what pretty girls are supposed to)
but even if it's because I'm flawed somehow,
it's still true,
even a broken statue still exists,
and I still exist,
and I still hate being p r e t t y.