Beauty is a curse. As with dolls, people treat beauty as an object, a pretty play thing to puppet. No one will ever know your worth. No one will believe there is anything beyond you at face value because they can’t get past your face. Your intelligence will cause them to hate you because they don’t want you too perfect. Just the right amount of dumb. Who am I? Do as I please or give them what they want so they will like me, because at this point I feel like no one ever will know who I am.
My beauty is a curse. Even though someone calling you beautiful – in English, in Tagalog, in Italian, in Brooklyn – should be taken as a compliment, I cannot take it because even those closest to me know that I feel pretty ugly on the inside. I’m not sure if it was there before or after the pretty phase, but my pretty face isn’t all there is to me.