Beauty; dependent on the eye
We fixate upon this state of conditional perfection
Condemning ourselves to misery and unattainability
A deeply routed manifestation of self hate,
Enforced by these damning untold rules of how we must look.
Birth - a true wonder of earth
Enriching a life and bringing a new one forward,
Potential brims and the restoration of this reality we will live in seems hopeful.
When a mother takes the first glance at her child,
She does not seek imperfection
She does not will them to change
A new life - a beauty which cannot be corrupted.
As that mother watches her baby grow,
Watches her love blossom
Rose-tinted smiles and laughter is what she meets.
Yet, as her baby looks in the mirror
The one her grandfather bought her for Christmas two years ago,
She analyses her imperfections-
She desires nothing more than to change herself.
She unravels on the sheets, a ball of sorrow
So tightly strung; she breaks.
That mother once saw the beauty in her child
Now an open casket reveals her pain.