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More Me
I am what they call plain pretty,
an in-betweener
not really pretty
not really plain
and I attract guys
who see me as a compromise
from what they really what-
the cheer leader blond
with the hot bod.
I am the bland personality
with pretty eyes
a weak chin;
cautious
with an intense gaze
reflecting my need
to have more that what I am ever offered
by guys who are plain-pretty too
or too too nice and have the slow
uptake of the often rejected.
My world offers me only the boring.
I could do something I suppose
but I missed the ring;
I was the also ran,
the next to the last chosen
the bridesmaid;
the sidekick;
the not-as-pretty friend
and what I did was to break
free of my old world
and soar
with plastic surgery.
Last year I took the knife and now I am strangely pretty
but I still know who I am inside
and that is disturbing;
and more disturbing is that I want to
reject the guys seeking pretty
for the times the rejected me as almost pretty
and that makes me feel pretty-strange;
angry and not lovable;
not an airhead now-
but the trophy.
I thought last night
how many almost-pretty
might have been easier
and more me.
poem
by
Lonnie Hicks
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