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She’s beautiful.

I look and look again…trying not to stare. But I can’t help it.

She takes my breath away. She smiles. She’s strong. She’s powerful.

She doesn’t feel that way though.

She’s exhausted. She is sick. Her back aches. She doesn’t fit into her clothes.

She has love handles.

She’s irritable. She’s uncomfortable.

Her 2 yr old hangs on her torn shirt.

She complains to strangers. I listen.

She is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

She’s short. She’s healthy. She’s perfect. She glows.

How I would love to “be her”.

She doesn’t feel that way though.

She looks at me, she thinks I’m beautiful.

She compliments my hair and my dress.

She tells me she wishes she had my body.

And I tell her, “No…no, you don’t.”

She gets defensive, insists and looks at me puzzled.

I look down and can’t control the tears.

She doesn’t get it….and most don’t.

I look “normal” on the outside…carefree.

But inside, I am a mess.

This body has had surgeries, needles, hormones, drugs, patches, pills, bruises, scars…

Lots of scars.

All covered up, by a pretty dress.

I cover up my tears with excuses and makeup.

I hold it in so that I don’t make others uncomfortable.

Yet, I am always uncomfortable.

So, she doesn’t know. And I can’t speak.

She looks offended. She thinks I’m rude. Inconsiderate. Selfish.

She doesn’t get it.

She grabs her bag and her child and hurries out the door.

She is pregnant.

I am not. And have never been.

Not by choice. But by the choice of this body.

I sit in stillness. My heart beats fast. I feel hopeless. I feel insecure. I feel alone.

No one understands.

I can’t explain it. I look normal. I look happy. I look healthy.

I look beautiful.

On the outside.

But on the inside, I am not.

She wishes to be me and I wish to be her.

Perspective.

Perfect Woman.