Beautiful

In the reflection off the screen of my digital camera when I take a picture.  That's the only time I ever allow myself to think that there's even the slightest chance that I'm beautiful.  When all I see is a portion of lips, a corner of an eye, a stray lock of hair.  That's when I let myself think that maybe, just maybe, I'm actually worth something.

Because then you can see pieces of me.  And only pieces.  They're incomplete.  They don't tell the whole story.  They just shows you one small rectangle of me.  A rectangle that may be just slightly beautiful, that might actually be appealing.  Those little pieces, that's all anyone should ever know of me.  They don't express me, they are not me, they are just a small portion.

In those rectangles, you can't see the pain, you can't find the self-loathing, you can't feel the agony.  Those little rectangles, the expressions they reflect, the moments they capture for my eyes alone, those are the only things that everyone should see but no one ever will.  They tell a story I like.  They hide the bitter, twisted plot.  They don't illustrate my mistakes before the world.

Sometimes, looking at that reflection, I actually feel complete; like maybe everything is going to be alright, maybe I'm not a failure, maybe, just maybe, I might be beautiful.  And then the moment is over, the picture is taken, and I put the camera away, thinking, "who the hell am I kidding?"