She stood with the face of a warrior, sharp and secure, but with a softness that reminded me of honey stirred into butter. The girl who, though loved by many, refused to look into the mirror and see anything save her faults. The crows feet that stretched out from the corners of her eyes, the single white hair that sprouted once a week from her chin, the freckles that danced over the bridge of her nose and scattered like children in a schoolyard across her cheeks. She hated the way her fingers stretched past those of others, knuckles thick in contrast to bone-thin extremities. She growled over her hips, swaying wide in her stride, moaned discerningly for the swollen fruit that lay invitingly on her pelvis.Â
But I saw her tall, a queen, a beauty of such high standards that it did not make sense to me why she would berate herself in such a manner. I loved the dozens of rings that she pushed over those knuckles and the stroke of her delicate fingers upon piano keys and guitar strings. The creases that lined her face were a winsome reminder of all the joy her life had entailed. Even the anger and remorse could be found curled up in those deep lines, and I loved her more for having endured so much, for having experienced more than most in the short life she had since lived. Her freckles were fairytales, magic, casting spells upon my heart, and her chin hair made me giggle. She was human, after all. Her hips gave her fluidity and the softness in her pelvis was nothing more than the cushion of comfort she deserved.Â
She is beautiful, this girl. A remarkable example of that which is most delicate and precious in this world, an idea that has become distant to its inhabitants. She is marvelous, a goddess of sorts, and it stings my eyes, it burns my throat, to know that she does not love herself the way that I love her.
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