Subjective Beauty by Anya Khan

At five years old, I awaken my parents to play with me.

I pull them out of bed, for there is much to see.

When the television opens, I jump up and scream,

“I want to be beautiful like her, if but merely a dream!”

Dismissive words flood me like a sea.

“No, no, you are already beautiful to me,”

“Your fair tint should be taken as a win!”

I tell myself, “I do not need to be white, I love my dark, beautiful skin.”

At seven years, I inquire of my kin,

“What makes ugliness such a sin?”

Grimacing faces and wandering eyes,

Empty words, as if to conceal a disguise.

“Those with an odd size? They have not any beauty,” they cried,

“Why, beauty is in you, so you must not sigh.”

Is it not amazing how man lie?

I tell myself, “I like my pretty self, even if I want their blue eyes.”

Aged nine years, I return from school,

Mother and I strolling alongside the pool.

“I think I enjoy my pleasing black waves,” I spoke like a fool.

Mother mindlessly speaks, “But wouldn’t blonde hair be such a tool?”

I tell myself, “I am not sure I am pleasing. With light hair, I’d fit in at school.”

Aged eleven years, I entered online,

Consuming beautiful things without a fee, until I do not feel fine.

Even outside, people treat the conventional ones to a shrine.

But my dark skin, eyes, and hair give me no beautiful sign.

I tell myself, “I wish I were American, a truly beautiful American.”

As years pass, I finally understand.

My black hair, darkened eyes, and skin, tanned,

All these features, before, I used to reprimand,

Come together to make me perfectly as planned.

For what use is a sea without land?

And what am I without my beautiful, tanned hands?

I tell myself, “I am beautiful, truly beautiful.”