The Mantra of Humility not Recognizing its own Beauty.

The Mantra of Humility not Recognizing its own Beauty:
Or the story of a girl who learned to love herself.

I am not beautiful. I'm ugly. No one will ever love me.
I am not beautiful. I'm ugly. No one will ever love me.
I am NOT beautiful. I am ugly. No one. will ever. love me.

My nose is too big and crooked. it points down as if it's frowning.
My mouth is too small. it is never smiling.
My hair is too long and frizzy. I'll use it to cover my face so that no one will ever see me.
My stomach is too big. I'm fat. I'll hide it behind my hands.
My head is too square. It's shaped like a box. A hollow box where knowledge slips out of my eardrums.
I am stupid. dumb. inconsequential.

No one will ever love me.
No one will ever love me because I don't wear make up.
"Go put on lipstick." she tells me, "Add some blush." "Why don't you ever wear dresses?"
"If you ever get married he'll leave you," she says, "No man wants to marry a woman who doesn't cook or stay home."
No one will ever love me.

I'm ugly.
My skin is a sickly pale. There is no flush. The visible blue-green veins beneath by skin are disgusting.
I am too pale. like death. even the dead fear me.
My hips are hideous. they pop out like they're disjointed.
My legs are too skinny, my ankles are bone, they're so white even ghosts are ashamed of me.
My eyes are shaped like almonds why couldn't they be narrower?
My arms are too thin why couldn't they be stronger?
My teeth are not white enough, algunos estan chuecos, I will grin with my lips never exposing them.

I am Not beautiful.
I am clumsy. Not graceful. always bumping into things.
Tripping over my own feet. crashing into doorways. Stumbling down stairs. Constantly tripping and falling. shattering my own self esteem.
My shoulders are too hunched. My head always stares down.
My movements are not fluid. They are sharp and pointed and alarming.
I am NOT beautiful because I'm daring.
My movements are too strong, my eyes are too staring. I am too fierce with squared shoulders, too raw and untamed.
I am too much of a frightening force filled with "Fuck you's!"
I am all jeans and no dresses, too paled legged for beauty.
I am to Revolting in my constant state of rebelling.
Refusing stereotypical standards of femininity.
I am NOT BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE I'M TOO FUCKING GODDAMN GOOD FOR BEAUTIFUL.

I Am stunning petite shaped, pale faced, clumsy as all fucking hell, goddess.
I Am square headed, mean looking, natural, big nosed, small mouthed, too intelligent-for-you-to-keep-up with woman.

Fuck you. FUCK THIS.
Fuck all your preconceived notions that made me feel like less.
That made feel unloved. unwanted.
Broken.

Fuck you. Fuck THIS.
I will always remind the child inside me. that her humility is my strength. That her pain is my motivation. That her struggle is my battle.
Fuck you. Fuck this.
I remind myself ever day about how I HAD to learn to love myself.
I change the mantra of humility not recognizing its own beauty into the Mantra of Never giving up while Facing Demons Boldly.

Fuck you! Fuck This!
I am Beautiful. I am NOT ugly. I will Always love me.

Fuck you. Fuck This.
I will repeat the mantra of Never Giving up while Facing Demons Boldly.

I am Beautiful. I am not ugly. I will always love me.
I am beautiful. I am not ugly. I will always love me.
I AM beautiful. I am NOT ugly. I. will ALWAYS. Love me.

Self-Sabotage.

There's something in his eyes when he talks. a deep reflective flicker of hope.
Followed by pupils that flash the fierce damages of loss.
There's something in his eyes when talks.
Something shy and beautiful, emotional and raw.
There's an impenetrable heaviness in his soul
Like he's trying to carry the weight of sweet mother Tonantzin
on shoulders that are made for love.

There's something in his eyes when he talks,
His retinas still speaking long after his voice slips away into thought.
They whisper that he is humble and honest, noble and strong.
That he is a teyaochihuani, guerrero,
Warrior of life
even when the days make it impossible to move on,
even when sadness solidifies into cement pulling ankles down.

There's something in his eyes when talks.
It's the way he looks at the ground as if at any moment his heart might sprout,
watering the Earth with free flowing ventricles,
as if at any moment he might tunnel his way back to Anahuac,
to nuestra Mexicatlalli.

There's something in his eyes when he talks,
that reminds me of all my fears and self-sabotage.
There's something in his eyes when he talks,
something that scares my hardened fleshy walls of hidden vulnerability
and I realize,
that there's something in my eyes when I talk.
Something shy and beautiful, emotional and raw.

I realize,
that there's something in our eyes when we talk.
That our pupils are telling the same story
of two people who are too self sacrificing,
too analytical, too harsh on the selves they are
because they can't accomplish the selves they want to be.

There's something in his eyes when he talks,
that makes my hardened fleshy walls of hidden vulnerability turn soft.
There's something in his eyes when talks,
that makes me want to fight my doubting self-sabotage.