Mom, am I ugly? I whisper to the glass,
my reflection flickers, frightened of what I’ll ask.
The world is loud; its cruelty wears no mask,
and I’ve learned to brace myself before it cracks.
Mom, am I ugly? I tuck my smile away,
hide it like a secret I’m scared to misplace.
Everyone speaks in judgments these days,
and I’m tired of shrinking to keep them safe.
Mom, am I ugly? I wish I didn’t care,
but mirrors feel heavier when I’m aware
of every flaw someone taught me to wear,
a weight stitched in silence, it's so unfair.
Mom, am I ugly? Or just too soft for this place
where beauty is currency and pain is commonplace?
Tell me I’m more than the lines on my face,
tell me I’m allowed to take up space.
Mom, am I ugly? You sigh, pull me near:
“my love, your worth isn’t built on how you appear.
The world will try to dim you, year after year,
but you glow brightest when you stay sincere.”
And maybe I’ll learn it, maybe one day I’ll see
that beauty was never something outside of me.
But tonight I just need someone to disagree,
someone to say, “no, sweetheart… you’re really lovely.”