Do you know what beauty is?

Some say it's these eyes.
The same eyes that have been rubbed with fists
that don't know their purpose,
fists that only know these tears are foreign,
and it is their job to eradicate them.
These eyes are two-sided mirrors,
only showing what the outer person believes to see,
not what's really there.
These eyes have known smiles, but not sleep;
joy, but not peace.
Are these eyes still beautiful?

Some say it's this smile.
The same smile that has been too many frowns,
curves of confusion and wishful thinking.
These teeth, straight and strong
only because of man's work, not nature's.
Teeth that were once blamed for unattractiveness,
and kept hidden by tight-lipped
excuses of a smile.
Lips that are anxiously bit rather than kissed,
red with embarrassment and the feeling
of never measuring up.
Together, these lips and teeth create a smile,
but alone they are just forcefully arranged teeth,
and lips that worry.
Is this smile still beautiful?

Some say it's these curls.
The curls that are, but don't want to be,
and only are because hormones got a hold of them.
These curls are soft, but disguised of that
by flyaway frizz that wants freedom
but will never get it.
These curls are angry at their boundaries,
and they take that anger out on me.
The truth is, I could never set them as free
as they wish to be.
Are these curls still beautiful?

Some say it's this size.
The petite waist and slender arms,
the curvy legs and prominent chest,
this childish height.
Smallness makes the big feel bigger,
stronger, more capable.
But it also makes the small feel smaller.
This is the same waist that hungers perpetually,
the same arms that shiver when no one else does,
the curves that hesitate instead of bragging,
and the height that's mocked, condescended,
and shamefully despised.
Is this size still beautiful?

The heart of the matter is that beauty
is simply misunderstood.
Beauty is the surface of unfathomable depths.
It is not beauty at all, but merely
an acceptance, or a recovery, or a new birth.
Something that was,
but wasn't until it was discovered.
And if this is the case, why aren't we searching for it?
Why are we waiting for beauty to appear
when we could be finding it?

i can't help but answer
the ethereal voice of the ocean.

nights like these taunt me, saying
"no wonder you're alone."
the living sleep, and the dead cannot
even irony shakes her head.

moons like these wish to comfort
"see? beauty yet exists in the night."
beauty so far away, so unreachable
the clouds could push it away.

winds like these have no respect
"our job is priority, you hold no value."
I am blown to pieces in shame
and the light breeze never follows.

hearts like these don't sleep in the night
"we aren't fooled by false promises."
rest comes too late and never enough
the morning has no mercy.

I could lie, but
even the moon misses you tonight.

some things need a voice,
a confident persuader,
a controller of audiences,
a tool of regal purpose,
but I can only write.

i don't want to read your curious looks
your casual tones, or anything they hint of
i did that once, and look where it got me

i don't want to read your eyes
or the crinkles that come with them
forced happiness hurts both ends, you know

i don't want to read your sighs
castoff glances, held breaths
waiting for something neither of us can place

i don't want to read your anger
the clenching of fists and jaws and hearts
interfering only backfires on me

i don't want to read your absences
how you don't seem to care until you're back
but i always do

i don't want to read your glares
frustration through avoidance, that's what you do
this game's too foolish for me

i don't want to read your heart
it's not written in a language i'd understand
and such is for the better

i don't want to read your scars
i might remember who caused them
and wonder why that who still exists

i don't want to read your memories
they're not the same as mine
maybe they never were

you always will be,
even though you never were.