Feb 21

Some Kind of Beautiful

She was beautiful in all of the usual ways. She had wide eyes that reflected the depths of the ocean and the heights of the sky, so when others gazed upon them they thought that they could fly. She had hair that blazed like fire, like meteors in the dark, so that for a moment you could almost believe she was the sun within the night. She had a perfect face, strong and lacking lines, the face of an angel untouched by the bounds of time. When she smiled, her teeth shone like freshly fallen snow and the frosty winter-wind that blows on for miles. She had skin that was unmarred by life and its hardships; with the smoothness of a baby yet to draw its first breath, cradled in the arms of kin. Her hands were subtle and gentle, quiet in her lap and steady in their motions, unperturbed and without muddling. She had long legs that put her head above those around her so that they were constantly looking up to her in all of her heavenly glory. Her waist was slender and small, small enough for no one to notice how little its size meant to her at all. The only thing her beauty was able to give to her was a shadow so drenched in light she could not be seen standing within it.

She was beautiful, so no one saw that her thoughts scoured the depths of the ocean looking for answers to questions she had never asked.

She was beautiful, so no one saw that her heart dwelled with the birds in the sky and her dreams could touch the edges of the universe.

She was beautiful, so no one saw the holy fire that sparked and festered and burned within her very soul, her very bones.

She was beautiful, so people only saw the sunlight which she gave to them; no one saw the storms which she had wethered or the rain she had learned to dance in.

She was beautiful, so the world was too starstruck to see the age of her soul, the wisdom of her heart, and revel in the experience of her mind.

She was beautiful, so no one saw the sharpness with which her tongue could lash out at those who spoke of hatred or injustice.

She was beautiful, so society became blind to the scars on her knees from where life had pushed her down, or how with quaking knees, she had risen and stood up.

She was beautiful for the hope which she clung to as a child clings to its mother, but no one saw her hopes hidden and growing beneath her skin.

She was beautiful, so no one thought that her gentle hands could clench so swiftly to battle anyone who dared touch those who she loved.

She was beautiful, so no one saw how her arms were ready to reach out to those in the world who needed to be reached but who were also unseen.

She was beautiful, so no one saw how much she yearned for her legs to travel the mountains and forests and valleys of the world.

Through all of these things, her beauty sang out like the song of a bird, floating on the wind, in the breeze, among the clouds. Yet it fell on ears deafened and bludgeoned by years of envy and hatred. For the world sees only with its eyes, the rest is naught.

For if they halted in their ceaseless parade of imagery, they would be blinded by what didn’t know was there to see. Yes, she was beautiful, but in a different sort of way.