Curate, connect, and discover
I have a beautiful friend. Half a year younger than me, with almond eyes and skin maybe two to three shades darker than caramel. Dusty sunset. It reminds me of spices and the billowing fumes of a barista coffee machine.
She has Columbian heritage, with glossy, thick black hair and long eye lashes. Dark eyes, bright teeth. She laughs big, smiles wide. The slight figure of a doe. She gets excited about everything. She's naive. She's adorable. She wants to explore.
She's beautiful, everyone tells her. She's terrified.
My friend sees the eyes. Of course she does. They're not admiring. They're predatory. She wears who she is on her sleeve, and she's a wondering, easily amazed person. She wants to be happy. Oh, have you ever heard of a better rape victim.
She wants to kiss someone. She wants to be in a relationship, with cuddles and pinky finger promises. She wants to be desired.
We smile. We watch her drink. We make sure she gets home afterwards.
Beauty is a lot of things. But I'd wager to say that no matter if you've carefully cultivated it yourself, were born into it, want it, use it, hate it, are aware of it
Broken down, all social veneers and descriptors stripped away,
It attracts attention.
Oh, Silvia Plath was right.