Nothing Special
In the eye of the beholder.
She hated
the way her toes looked,
the way this one didn't touch the floor
like the rest,
the way they reminded her
of her father's feet.
She hated her profile,
and how her face changed
after the wreck—
the way it was different now
from before,
the way she lost the face she was born with.
Not that she ever loved that face.
She hated her nose
and the bump it borrowed
from an ethnicity she did not own.
Where did it come from,
when that DNA thing proved
she was nothing special?
She hated her belly
and her arms
and the ridges in her fingernails
and the way her laugh did that thing—made
that sound,
that sound she hated,
and how her smile,
when it was too big,
made her unhappy.
She liked her eyes,
the color of them,
that they burned
like amber.
But her lashes were too thin,
and too short,
and she hated that.
She hated the scar on her head, and that her hair
wouldn't grow there,
and she had to remember that
so she wouldn't forget,
because she hated it.
But of all the things she hated
about her,
most of all,
she hated the way
she hated herself.