I look at myself and I see pimples and glasses and big lips and a huge forehead and a big nose. I look at myself and see nothing beautiful. I know that when people tell me I’m beautiful, they are just saying it. Or at least, I just don’t believe it, but I smile anyway. I mean, what is there to believe. I know what beautiful looks like. I see it everytime I open my phone. So I know that I am not beautiful, that is not me. What I see is pain and distress. What I see is my canker sores and think “What is stressing me out this week.” I look at my green eyes with the contrast of the huge purple eye bags and think “am I too young to have these.” I see my pimples and know that the way I take care of my face, I shouldn’t have them. I see my nose and laugh because it is my worst feature, but in a way I like it. I like it because it is the same as my dad’s. Sometimes, when I do truly look at myself, I do see the potential for beauty. If I had a better nose, smaller lips, less pimples, smaller forehead, maybe I could be beautiful. But only a few times do I think I actually look beautiful. After I shower and I am my cleanest, purest self, I think “Maybe I am beautiful.” But no, I’m just saying that.