I’m not ugly,
but I’m not the kind of beautiful
that I see every day
on other women’s faces.

Although I am smart,
and I am kind,
and trust me—
I am really trying to be
the things this world expects
of a teenage girl—

It doesn’t matter.
Because all people see
is beauty and fame.

How am I supposed to love myself
in a world so vain?

If we’re going off of looks,
I am not ugly,
but I am plain.

I am pretty enough
for people to come,
but not enough
for them to stay.

Ask me what I don’t like about myself,
and I’ll pick myself apart—
every little detail I can’t stand—
and I will tell you
everything that is wrong with me.

All the flaws
that only I see
drown out
all of the beautiful, unique things about me
that I just can’t seem to see.

I am more than my face
or how much I weigh.
I am a person,
and I just have to say:

I am smart.
I am kind.
I am loving,
and caring,
and I have a good heart.

True beauty
is more than your face
or how much you weigh.

Because what is beauty
if you are not loving,
and you are not kind?

This world is so vain,
yet completely blind.

If only the world could see
that true beauty
comes from the inside.

“Go back to Mexico”
Is it because you see my face? Or hair?
That you assume I'm a guest here?
Or maybe you hear me speaking a language you don't know.
Or see me eating pozole con tostadas de tinga.
Is it not right to ask my country to do better?
Does the color of my skin disqualify me from wanting more from ‘The American Dream?’
Expecting more. Needing more.
You assume that my last name makes me a foreigner, when I try to hold it with pride.