The Way I Look

My appearance is the least interesting thing about me,
But sitting in a circle they asked what I like about the way I look.
I like that I look like my sister,
That I carry my weight on eastern hips,
And my veins peak through a “once in a generation” baby pink complexion.
So why do I disparage my thighs,
Disguise my skin with fake tan and plan to escape some sin,
Some predestined disposition for loathing of and lying to myself,
Somehow past the point of help.

I can’t remember a time I didn’t dread the mirror and fear the dressing room,
But I know I saw myself differently once,
Which means I can see myself differently again!
But I try and try and build a house of cards of clarity and grace
Only for it to melt at the first unflattering glimpse of my face.
What do I like
About the way I look?

I like my freckles.
But they get lost in the mess of concealer
Because no one should have to look upon a blemished face.
Between each lovely brown medal of sun-swept afternoons
Lies some pit of a pore
Filled with the runoff of a stress-swept evening,
And my nails know that if they dig a little deeper
They’ll find a deeper meaning to each spot
And once it’s understood it will have to disappear
Because who could endure such exposure?

I like my magically multicolored eyes.
So I won’t leave the house without some liner
Because why deny myself that prize of emphasis?
I’ll sleep with contact lenses in
Even if I risk infection
Because I can’t stand to stand in front of the mirror,
Knees locked, racing against the clock,
Attempting to decorate my retinas each morning
With the subtle blue tint of seeing clearly,
Because my eyes will water and my mascara will run
So I will feel chased.

I like my hair.
But I style it just so,
Twisting over-gelled strands carefully between my fingers,
Lapping up the moisture in some expensive towel
Alongside the tears from the years of hatred for my bird’s trophy nest of curls,
And telling myself I’m happier now!
I haven’t straightened my hair since my bat mitzvah,
Because that’s what it means to be myself!
That’s what I can contribute!
But when I needed nodules glued to my skull,
Tracing the waves of my brain for 48 long hours,
I wasn’t worried about what they’d find,
I was worried that my hair would be unstyled.
Untangled and bare,
Neat but raw.
No, they didn’t find epilepsy; my defects escaped diagnosis,
But I had a feeling that the nurse reading my chart could see
The shame, the sham, the scam of the mind she set to examine.
Still she laid my head on a towel
And carefully braided my vulnerable hair around each excavation site
And wrapped up my head like a gift in gauze
All while telling me that the naked curls she wove were beautiful.
And how lucky I was to be so unique.

Unique.
I am anything but.
I look like my sister.
My sister who says I can use her ID next year,
Who shares my clothes like she shares my face,
Whose name I still respond to
Even though it’s been years since we lived in the same place.
It used to bother me, but now I miss it,
And if someone walked by me tomorrow
And called out her name
I think I would cry.

I look like my people.
We’re all so much the same,
And sometimes on the surface
There’s a proof of our timeless connections,
A proof no schism is strong enough to erase,
A proof I should be proud to wear across my face.

I look like myself when I was younger,
Glowing pearly white in the bright Georgia sun,
Standing too tall and broad for my age,
Covered in hives or bites or rashes,
Bones broken and joints sprained,
When I had only hopeful things to say.

I love them all dearly.
So I suppose I do love the way I look,
And that is allowed to be interesting.