My Type of Beautiful
Poem 4
I'm not that type of beautiful
Where one falls to have a chance
To approach me on the floor and ask me for a dance
I'm not that type of beautiful
To turn heads as I walk past
Or the one who sees those looks that most eyes cast.
I'm not that type of beautiful
That makes people's hearts race
Nor the one they would want to see all prettied up in lace
But
I am my type of beautiful
With love seeping from every pore
My type of beautiful
With open arms to comfort more
I am my type of beautiful
With a heart bigger than any physical flaws
My type of beautiful
To love myself and not society's claws
About the Creator
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I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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