Dazzling, sparkling, shining silver,

Empty but a torrent, a reflective shining blizzard,

An image there, startled, scared,

Buckling unheard under a weight it cannot bear.

.

For when was a rose

Spawned without its thorns

The shimmer of beauty

Never came without a cost.

.

For that glinting lock is far too straight

Perhaps a curl could lend it grace,

If only her eyes were large and clear,

Maybe then she could have learned to love her face.

.

Perhaps these clothes could hide the weight,

When was the last time that she ate?

Shoulders back, chin up, always sit upright,

Perfect hair, don’t stare, don’t forget to smile.

.

For they said she is imperfect and imperfect is she,

They pointed out her flaws and said she wasn’t pretty,

So she changed everything about herself to feel happy,

But tell me, after losing herself, who really could be?

.

She wore a mask of paint and dust

And hid behind it all day,

And hated what she saw beneath,

When it fell away.

.

Such violent, vicious, crippling hate

The kind that hurts and begins to callously decay,

A rosebush has roots, ones that keep it up straight,

But all the hurt and pain caused hers to slowly fade.

.

All the ones that love and care,

The sun, the sea, the land, the air,

Can help to heal you, but still

If you don’t hold yourself up, who will?

.

Learn to love that which you see

Beauty is not always what the eye doth meet,

Inside and outside, it’s a package deal

But never lose touch with reality.

.

Be the one you want to be,

Love yourself, indiscriminately,

Like a rose with all its thorns,

Pretty with all her imperfections and flaws.

~

ARSHIA VORA