I used to think beauty was the image of the swimsuit model
I pinned on my bedroom wall, opposite the bed
so, it was the first thing I saw when I woke
and the last thing I saw when I went to sleep.
Someday you’ll have it, I told my 10-year-old self,
as if somehow being sure about that would mean
beauty would someday come down out of its poster
and lay with me simply because I wanted it bad enough,
and stayed loyal to that want.
Then one day I got exactly what I wanted,
though I had to buy it lunch and walk around town for hours
asking it questions first.
Having beauty took too much work and cost too much integrity.
That was when my idea of having beauty started to become ugly.
Meanwhile in the dark, I’d sometimes wish I didn’t want beauty
to begin with.
Beauty, I learned, could reject me, could be cruel and petty,
and quite repulsive sometimes, not unlike me
in my relentless objectification of pretty much everything,
being a permanence-seeking human – yeah, you should admit it too –
It’s why now I could care less about finding beauty
outside myself, or having it, and am determined to
train my mind to understand it to be something I can never find
and only barely enact, that is, when I’m present and
compassionate enough to accept that.