The image on the mirror is ugly.
it has small eyes, wide nose, thin lips, thin hair, flat chest, and wide hips. I wish its skin’s a bit fairer, its hair’s a little fluffier, its lips much fatter, its eyes bigger, its nose much straighter, that it’s way bustier than it is, that it’s got slightly longer legs, and just a little bit taller.
I also wish it’s more mature, more patient, much more gentle, much, much slower to anger, thinks way less about things than it does now, way less anxious than it is now, and much more loving, caring, and forgiving to others.
“Then, you wouldn’t be your own image,” the mirror said. “If all your wishes come true, you wouldn’t be God-send. You’d be others-manipulated, conventions-regulated, and pretty much everything else other than your own person.
I froze for a moment. I stared at the image again.
True, that image is not me. I was never my own to begin with, and I should be stepping away from this deception.
That’s when I know, I am beautiful. In every way that I already am.
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