He always wanted more than who I was and I questioned if he loved me or the idea of having someone to love. He tried to mold me into cookie-cutter shapes that no distorting could let me fit through even though I tried.
I thought I was ugly from all the words he left unsaid. Even if I begged, he never ever would tell me. I didn't mind not being called beautiful. I could handle it. Just a little "you look nice" would've brought me enough bliss to last me through.
He tried to make me into a woman he has dreamt of. A little housewife, making home-made tortillas and calling after the kids in Spanish words I could never pronounce correctly. Though I'd tell him that's not me, he'd just reply "not yet."
I was never good enough. It was who I was destined to be– If I were to remain with the man who never could even call me pretty. I'd beg for him to tell me once, but still he'd huff his breath and never ever tell me.
But you don't do that like he did. You look at me like I'm the world and you're merely an observer peering through a telescope. You bring me umbrellas when it rains and would never hesitate to offer me your jacket.
You teach me every day how I should be treated by a man who claims to love me. I'm not a girl meant to bend a break into a shape that man has designed. I am a woman of her own new and unique beauty and you're never ever afraid to tell me.
So, if you ask me how I feel when you call me beautiful, I'd tell you this: I feel like I'm healing.