I'm envious of girls born with fathers to tell them how beautiful they are. They grow up knowing, believing, and so when they're told by others, their "thank you" is one of gracious modesty. It's all a game to them. There was no great compliment spoken, just a statement of fact.

The only person to tell me was my mother. And I always believed she told me more to make me feel better, and less because it was true. Like when I slept on the bottom bunk, she told me spiders stayed on the ceilings, and when I slept on the top bunk, she told me they stayed on the floors. Beautiful was a goal for me. Not something I was, but something I could be, maybe, if I prayed, and brushed my teeth every day.

And then I thought beauty was clear skin. And then I thought beauty was long hair. And then I thought beauty was straight teeth. And I had none of those things, so I couldn't be beautiful.

And then I thought beauty was big breasts. And then I thought beauty was being light skinned, like my mother. And then I thought beauty was being care free, like my little sister. And I had none of those things, so I couldn't be beautiful.

It's my struggle, to wake up every day and feel like I'm competing. To not see any beauty in myself, no matter how hard I try. To wonder why I'm still trying, when nobody cares. It's a struggle for me.

I look in the mirror sometimes, and tell myself I'm beautiful. I feel like I'm lying. That's not the way it's supposed to be.