My teachers told me that I didn’t
need good grades to do well in
life, because my pretty face would
keep me successful enough.
In fifth grade I stood on
stage with a crumpled piece of
paper in my hands, fingers trembling,
The words came out of my mouth
like pieces of shattered glass,
uneven and useless.
They laughed and said baby It
doesn’t matter because you’re going to
be beautiful one day.
In high school, I hid behind confidence and
eyeliner and friends who said they
couldn’t believe I was a student of theater,
because I seemed more like a model.
As if my dream to be on stage did not matter
because my beautiful face and big
***** contributed to my shallow personality
that they knew absolutely nothing about.
My boyfriend told me he didn’t need
to have conversations with me because
my hands were supposed to do all the talking.
People put pretty in numbers, your waist
measurement, the size of your *******, if
you have the right numbers, you’re pretty.
Last summer a celebrity heard me sing and
told me I would do great in the music industry
because I had a pretty face and a narrow waistline.
I guess he forgot about the strings on my guitar
and the songs I carefully crafted, just for him.
My teachers told me that I didn’t
need good grades to do well in
life, because my pretty face would
keep me successful enough.
I don’t want to be pretty, love.
I want to put the stars in the night sky and
paint the earth with the colors of my
voice and stand tall with the sun in my hands.
I don’t want to be just pretty
I want to be pretty smart,
pretty strong,
pretty talented,
pretty kind,
pretty **** amazing.
- Kaya