Everyone has an image of themselves
that they wear like a badge of honor.

He sees me, all beautiful and flawless,
a man’s perfect dream, but I see myself
differently. I can pinpoint every imperfection
he fails to notate in his little book; that’s
what society has instilled in me to see
nothing but my faults.

I’m prompted to look like the skeletons
in the magazines—defining beauty
by model looks, gorgeous hairstyles,
a size zero frame, skimpy clothes,
expensive jewelry, a sugar daddy
to supply all my needs and everything else
that’s superficial—none of which are essential.

Beautiful, awesome, unique, loving, kind,
caring—this man sees me as a wonderful
woman, but I weigh every imperfection
and nothing else; his thoughtful
words fly over my head like a bird, a kite,
a plane. I cannot understand why he sees
what he sees in me, for in my eyes,
I’m not that great.

He sees me for who I am, but I do not see
myself at all; I’m chasing after the one
who got away; meanwhile, he’s trying to
convince me he’s one of the few good men
left in the world, and my response may have
been a little hard, I said, “good for you lucky fella,”
unfortunately, he’s not my type,
and I refuse to settle.