Am I pretty? 
I ask that question to everyone,  
My moms,  
My friends, 
My brothers and sister, 
My aunt and uncle. 
They all say the same thing, 
“Of course you are.”  
They pause to think of another word, 
“You’re beautiful in your own way.” 
 
Let’s freeze this moment in time.  
What does it mean to be beautiful in my own way? 
I don’t wear makeup or the designer clothes.  
I don’t talk bad about other people.  
I don’t put people down, 
I guess that doesn’t make a pretty girl.  
 
A girl that feels uncomfortable wearing a crop-top 
Because she is scared of showing too much. 
A girl that hates putting on a mask of makeup  
Just to come home and take it off once more.  
A girl that goes to school and ditches her best friend 
Just to go and hang out with a group of plastic barbies, 
To talk bad about her.  
About her flaws and mistakes.  
About her smarts, and ability to make people laugh 
 
 
 
Even me,  
I love her jokes but in front of my fake friends 
I try, so hard not to laugh.  
But this what makes me a pretty girl. 
Right?  
 
To have the right to call people stupid, 
To have the right to stop talking to the so-called losers. 
Because I’m supposably to good for them. 
To have the right to forget who I really am.  
Within a second, 
A day, 
A lifetime.  
And it was all because of those pretty girls.  
 
When I come home, I look in the mirror. 
I ask myself this one question  
After I take off the mask,  
The dollar bills, 
The fake identity.  
I ask myself.  
Am I pretty? 
Of course, I am.  
I just don’t need all of those other pretty girls to tell me that.