White Lie

When I was younger, my cheeks were chubby
and my hair was strewn into thick brown snarls.
When I was younger, my freckles were imbalanced
and thrown on haphazardly over a sheen of pale skin.
When I was younger, my teeth were yellow and
crooked, multicolored brackets dotting each one.
When I was younger, I devoured pancakes like air
and didn't notice how it made my belly bulge.

I've heard that people wisen with time.
Does that mean it's wise that nowadays,
I press my palms to my face and chin
until it's made some illusion of a difference?
Is it wise that I flinch every time I meet a mirror?
That I ask for dull blue braces, even though
it's nearly impossible to ignore that little girl
who's jumping up and down, begging for rainbow?
I sit up straight now, not because of etiquette,
but because I can't stand the folds of my skin
my belly carves when I lean. I punch my stomach
inwards, because if I'm a real athlete,
someone with a real body, it shouldn't hurt.
And that's the wise thing to do?

I'm curling into myself, scars slipping across
my shape, twisting my frame sideways to watch
everyone else who just so happens to be society's
dictation of picture-perfect. Some bronze-toned,
blonde-haired, blue-eyed hourglass.
My skin is pale.
My hair is brown.
My eyes are green and blue and brown and gold
all at once.

I ask for help.
I ask those who I've been told to trust.
I ask if they think I'm
pretty.

They say yes.

And I should feel better

Except
When I was younger, my mom told me
that truth should always be sacrificed
for kindness. She told me
that sometimes it's okay
to tell a white lie.

So
I don't ask anymore.
I don't have to.

Because
When it comes down to it,
Even when "it's nothing personal,"
they never choose me.

When I was younger, my mom told me
that truth is bound to come out someday.
She was right.