I am a mess

I’m learning to appreciate
what they all called “average.”
    My mother only ever asked me
             about my sister’s beauty,
                 it was never the other way around.
I am plain-faced with dry lips
and a scar on my right eye,
overweight and short-legged.
  But I try to speak like poetry,
          and when I laugh I want to sound like music
      and I wish my face was carved from stone.
Because I can’t hide from your camera forever,
    even if your camera is hiding from me.
          The lens doesn’t look like my reflection
               and the vain reflection doesn’t look like me.
I am plain-faced with dry lips
and a scar on my right eye,
curvy and short
    with a laugh like thunder
          and a face carved from the constellations.
                                      (I am a mess. I am me.)

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