She is not pretty.
Her face is an average face; normal, common, ordinary. She have too big eyes, a nose that is a little bit too small, and slightly crooked teeth.
She is not pretty, and she does not mind.
Her heart isn't kind.
Isn't caring nor warm, but it is not bitter. It is a heart. Beating strong and pulsing with life. It is too tight, sometimes. Hurting her when she wanted to breathe. Most of the time she lives with the feeling of death but her heart is alive and so is she.
People asked her if she is capable of love.
They never get their answer because it is not their business what her heart can or cannot do.
She loves, barely and hesitantly. A child walking for the first time, falling down and keeps getting up.
She loves like she is dying.
Kindness isn't inherent in her,
but the autumn and pumpkin latte taste bright on her tongue, scalding and burning. She tried crying one night, but the mold would not broke (or it's already broken and she does have enough to care).
People whispers about her, she does not care.
Labels are pinned unto her back and she walks like life isn't just boxes with tags slapped on it. She walks like life is life and nothing more. They are scared of her, murmuring about her normal skin; how she can walk like she is deaf to the world.
They are afraid because she held the secret that they want so bad to devour.
"what is your deal?" "Why won't you smile?"
"Are you even human?" (howcanyouloveyourselfwhenyouarentspecialprettywhenyouarejustcommonandaveragehowhowhowhowho-)
She does not stand out, standing out means to fit in. She knows that to fit in means dying. And she is in love with life to let go, too in love to care that she is nothing and not special because she isn't. How can she be more than what she is when life is miraculous and a wonder and so so so much more than she could ever be in a lifetime.
She is not pretty, and she is okay with that.
Because she knows that there is so much more in life than beauty.
-nabs
About a thing more important that aesthetic.
