He likes pretty girls; not me. He likes sexy girls; not me. He likes those busty, bronze-skinned babes Who turn a guy on with the tap of a nail… Not me. He likes a somebody; not me.
I cringe at the ugh of it all.
I wrote that lovely piece of (ahem) poetry at the ripe old age of 15. I don’t know who the guy was at the time but I was certain that I was anything but pretty and therefore, of little value and unworthy of love.
I was an awkward, insecure and friendless freshman in high school at the time and deep in the throes of “I hate me-hood”. And for a variety of reasons, I have sorta stayed in that neighborhood for a long, long time.
But I don’t live there anymore. In fact, I exited that place, shook the dirt off my sandals, packed up it’s baggage and sent it back to the pit of hell with all the other lies that somehow have had a hold on me for so many years.
And I want to go on record today with the following statement:
Pretty is not good enough for me. Let me tell you more…