My friends tell me to believe that I am beautiful despite going home to only lie awake at night, wondering why their genes formed in a way that even on a molecular level, was ugly. I often look in the mirror and rearrange my expression to mimic this internalized idea of what I should look like. In reality I am only making myself look more ridiculous. I use my hands to cover my face and not to write, to turn pages, to push the hair away from my face.
With a camera I wish I could capture the candid moments of where I truly felt beautiful, and make this belief, that I am beautiful when I feel beautiful, my top priority. It is not SAT’s or my GPA that will allow me any peace, and I only wish I spent as much time caring for myself than I did caring for these 2-dimensional, bold numbers. I will pin the photographs to my textbook covers and the insides of my closet doors and on the corners of mirrors, so whenever I feel the urge to spread my fingers across my nose and over my eyelashes, I will instead graze my frozen expression in the photograph and try to believe.
yesterday in the car my mom said “theres always the one gay twin out of a pair” and my twin brother and I shot a glance at one another because we’re both the gay twin