Rain threatened to pierce

the town nestled in my soul

because of the thought that

I was

not

"beautiful"

like her or her,

or her or her,

because my cheeks were round,

as if physically swollen

with the self-hatred

poisoning my brain,

and my ears pointed out obnoxiously

as if to signal to the world

just how far I was from being

"beautiful."

But when familiar arms embrace me

because they see

the gold in my heart,

the diamonds in my eyes,

the pearls in my smile,

and the richness in my life,

I know I wouldn't want to be

her or her or her or her

because the arms already take me

for who I am,

not for a shell that will wither

over the years.

Like an epiphany,

thunder cracks and rain falls at last

after years and years

of a long self-hating drought.