Being Women

Gentle, elegant, graceful.
Long, soft brown mane, fluttered by the breath of nature.
Milky skin brighter than pearls.
A white carnation peeking out on top of her left ear.

Long, ivory dress she wears.
Gliding lightly on a garden of flowers.
Soft, pink tints creep up her cheeks.
And an earnest smile escapes her lips.

She’s a princess all princes want to make a queen of.
She’s everyone’s dreams come true.
She’s a definition of beauty.

Everyone takes a pleasure from just a glimpse of her presence.
Everyone wants to be her, or to be hers.
Everyone starts to feel jealous.
Every time she walks past, every man drools.

She takes my hand,
People turn their heads towards me,
And they snicker.

I take a look at myself.
Short, messy red hair.
Tanned olive skin.
Even nature refuses to enhance my description.

Spectacles framing my face.
Boyish shirt and pants.
Honest, strong, reckless.
Even if we run on the same garden of flowers, we are not the same.

People look at me like I’m her handmaiden.
That elegant girl is my best friend.
My boyish self is her best friend.
But still, people look at me like I’m her handmaiden.

Even if we have the same abilities, we are not the same.

We are both grown women, but we are not the same.

Because she’s the universal definition of beauty,
and I’m just me.

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Being Women

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