Sometimes I look in the mirror, and judge
the shape of my nose
the curve of my brows
the round of my cheeks
the jut of my chin.
I weigh my breasts and cradle my hips, where hollows form between muscle and skin.
Am I attractive?
Does beauty have a shape?
Why are my father’s eyes so large in my face?
Is my mother’s chin too strong?
I never become prettier the longer I look
I become something else, something abstract.
I am a Picasso of flaws and jumbled pieces
Stuck together with tacks and tape.
Between all my edges are stories
that turned the color of my eyes green
that make the veins in my chest blue
that make my hands shake with fear
that make my heart ache with memory.
In these harsh curves are
bones that have yet to break
teeth that bite and don’t let go
scars that I made and earned.
The woman that looks at me isn’t pretty.
She’s a thousand pieces
That a generous soul would call Nouveau.