Am I beautiful?

Instagram is my biggest foe.

Scrolling through my feed, I’m led to such

beautiful girls.

With perfectly arched brows and full lips,

Their hair shiny and their perfect teeth,

With bikini bodies;

Curvy bosoms and yet flat tummies!

How is it possible?

To have a thousand followers

And a thousand likes?

To be so wanted, by all the men alike.


She’s a hoe!

Caked-face bitch.

I can’t help but feel like that green-eyed witch.

Is social media all a mere a façade?

She’s plastic; she just knows how to play her cards.

Crooked nose and curled lips,

I am only 5.1 feet.

My proportions are just not right,

Why do all my clothes seem so tight?


Am I beautiful, I often ask.

My boyfriend thinks I’m some work of art.

He says

He likes looking at where my ear lobe meets my face,

And when I furrow my brows in a daze,

He says

My genuine belly-laugh,

And the way my cheeks puff up,

He says

The smell of my hair and my little sounds,

Makes his chest flutter a little more.

My arms wrapped around his, makes him feel

At bliss.

He thinks I’m perfect.

But before today, it didn’t matter what he thought

Because objectively, I was clearly not.

Before today, those girls who cared, not for a single second

What I felt,

Mattered more to me than what he saw.


It fascinates me now, how powerful it is,

that the way he gazes at me when I walk through the door,

the way in which his fixated eyes light up with adore,

Makes me feel as if I were some kind of angel –

Sublime, perfect and a miracle.

That in his head, in his daydreams and everyday thoughts,

I was the most beautiful girl in his world,

no other girl mattered.

It seems so silly, then, that I doubted myself, for,

Having found love is such an enchanting win.


Those instagram girls, are after all,

looking for that one thing;

To be loved, that’s all.















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