What Would It Be Like?

I look at myself in the mirror,

Unsatisfied with the image I see staring back at me.

I fix my shirt, run my fingers through my hair,

Wondering what it would be like to be someone else.

To be anyone who isn’t...

Me.

What would it be like?

To have bright blue eyes,

Catching everyone’s attention with a single glance.

Reflecting the sky in the daytime and taking its place in the night.

What would it be like?

To have blonde hair,

Down to my elbows and radiant as the sun,

Loose curls bouncing up and down with every step.

What would it be like?

To have long, beautiful legs,

Incredibly thin and gorgeously tanned.

What would it be like?

To have a flatter stomach,

Bigger breasts,

Smaller nose,

Thinner eyebrows...

What would it be like?

To be someone...

That I’m not.

To be society’s definition of

Perfect.

What would it be like?

To be someone who everyone else stared at when I walk through a room.

Making every other girl look at me and say

What I’ve always said to myself

About all the other girls:

“Damn. I wish I was her.”

And I know wondering only leads to wishing,

And wishing of what you don’t have,

Can’t have,

Will never have

Only makes you unhappy with what you were born with,

With what you’re stuck with for your entire life.

And we know that we can’t escape ourselves,

But that doesn’t stop us from running.

Because we all know that we can’t be anyone but ourselves,

And therefore we make a point to be someone different.

So brunettes want to be blondes,

Blondes want to be brunettes,

People who are short want to be tall,

Those who are tall want nothing but to be short.

And it’s not a matter of not liking who we are,

But loving who we’re not;

We want what we can’t have,

And we don’t want what we do have,

And we know we can’t escape,

But we still run.

We run on, and on, and on,

Doing nothing but hiding our faces behind a mask of

Foundation, concealer, blush, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara...

Knowing that at the end of the day,

When all we hide behind washes off,

We’ll be left with what we started with--

Left with...

Plain old me.

What would it be like?

To be plain old me.

I look at myself in the mirror.

I see the exact same image that I once hated,

An image that is in no way perfect...

And I am completely satisfied.