the words I kept

𝓣𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒓é

I look in the mirror, and what do I see,

 fractures in the glass, reflections that sting, 

the unforgiving curve of humanity,

 imperfections like bruises I carry. 

I look in the world, and what do I see,

 a tapestry woven with cruel threads of gold, 

beauty's rigid script I cannot embody, 

her thighs not slender, her nose defiant.

 Her bust doesn't bloom, her legs root deep,

 she stands in shadow—but oh, how she breathes. 

She breathes with a beauty that burns from within, 

a quiet fire the world dares not define.

 🪞ৡ

 -𝑅𝑒𝒻𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒮𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 

 🪞ৡ

Author's Note

This poem was born from standing face-to-face with the mirror—both literal and societal. The societal mirror, a reflection of the beauty standards and expectations imposed by our culture, often amplifies the sting of not measuring up. I've wrestled with self-esteem for as long as I can remember, often seeing a face and body I wished looked different. Too soft here, too sharp there. Never quite enough.

But I've begun to uncover something deeper in that ache: not absence, but presence. Not failure, but a different kind of beauty. One that doesn't beg for approval. One that breathes in the shadows, unedited and whole. A quiet fire that doesn't flicker for the world, but burns for itself.

— A face that breathes fire. Resilience. Strength.