Beauty Marks

I think back to all the times my mother has praised me for my appearance

Kept beauty as my #1 trait

And weakness 2nd

The way she couldn’t believe that “someone like me” came from “someone like her”

And wouldn’t be caught dead raising me with arrogance,

Or entitlement,

Or confidence,

Or self-worth.

Her trauma would always come before who I might’ve grown into

Someone that might’ve stood with both feet on the ground

Instead of clawing my way to a new higher standard

Picking at details before she gets the chance.

Ultimately, when my imperfections arose

So did my Anxiety that took Control with it.

I think back to the times my mother told me I was beautiful every time she’d see me

And I often wonder if she knows that she stopped,

Or that I’ve noticed.