father says natural is beautiful
so why do you redden your cheeks
and blacken your eyes?
Why do you remove the hair on your legs
and draw them into your brows?
Why do you hold your breath
lest your stomach show
and hold your fart
lest they know
that you’re a human? O woman,
father says natural is beautiful
so why do you straighten your hair
to curl it next
and pretend to orgasm
so they think you enjoyed the sex?
Why do you dumb yourself down
and push your breasts up?
Why do you smile when you’re told to
and love when you don’t want to?
will you stop, woman?
Father says natural is beautiful
but that is doubtful
for what does father know
he’s only a fellow.
I don’t think of you as a typical beauty. I never once did.
To me your hair mimics asphalt more than the lustrous feathers of ravens. Comparing your eyes to heavenly lights seems a stretch when they are the common color of dirt. I can’t imagine you as a tall, pole-slender image; your God-given shape is right bulky.
But I never cared about those pointless things anyway.
What good have such trivial attributes ever done the world?
When I look at you, I see you—or in other words, all of you that really matters. I see a kind heart and compassionate arms. I see a patient, gentle spirit abounding with love towards all of God’s creatures. I see the perfect blend of humility and strength of character. I see a wise intellect as well as an endearing sense of humor. I see all the qualities that make you the person I love, regardless of the bodily package you’re wrapped up in.
So forgive me if I don’t think you’re beautiful, because I find you to be far superior to that worthless and pointless nonsense the world calls beauty.
The aching in my chest
isn't because I miss you,
it's realizing that you have
become someone I no longer know,
your fears, your 4 am thoughts,
are things I no longer have an equivalent to.
Who we were and who we are
are four different people,
and the me from now
doesn't relate to the me from then,
let alone to the you from now.
-Tanzy Sayadi and Jarod Kintz
I had a dream about you last night. You set a timer on in the bathroom to prove how long it takes me to get ready. So I shaved your legs, made up your face and gave you lashes. An hour later you thanked God for not making you a woman.
To the people who love you, you are beautiful already. This is not because they’re blind to your shortcomings but because they so clearly see your soul. Your shortcomings then dim by comparison. The people who care about you are willing to let you be imperfect and beautiful, too. (20)
The desert at night was black and a strange madder-tinted silver; the sky was black, and the great contorted cliffs, and the vast expanses of sand that stretched out in all directions. But the red moon cast a pale crimson-tinged luminescence over everything, and far above the stars were glittering points of silver.
She's it. She's my everything. She's the standard by which I'll judge beauty for the rest of my life. I'll measure every touch to her breath on my skin. Every voice to her voice. Every mind to her mind. My measure of perfection. The name carved into me. If I could, I would lie with her under these stars until my heart burst.
Beautiful is he who recognizes what is truly beautiful even if the surface is ugly. Truthful is he who says what is true even if the truth is ugly. Ugly is he who measures beauty by its exterior without first weighing the interior. And ugly is the man who judges harshly what he sees looking out without first judging what he sees in the mirror.
In a world full of war, famine, oppression, deceit, monotony, what—apart from the eternal innocence of animals—offers an image of hope? A mother with a newborn child in her arms? The child may end up as a murderer or a murder victim, so that the hopeful image is a prefiguration of a pietà: a mother with her newly dead child on her lap.
Gina was beautiful like a sunset. You see it and you think of how beautiful it is, and then it’s over and you move on. But Trista was beautiful like a song. The kind of song you play over and over and never get sick of hearing. The kind of song he wanted to write for her, but he knew he would never be able to string together the right combination of notes to show her how he really felt.
A woman's body is a sacred temple. A work of art, and a life-giving vessel. And once she becomes a mother, her body serves as a medicine cabinet for her infant. From her milk she can nourish and heal her own child from a variety of ailments. And though women come in a wide assortment as vast as the many different types of flowers and birds, she is to reflect divinity in her essence, care and wisdom. God created a woman's heart to be a river of love, not to become a killing machine.