WhyDoYouNotBelieveYouAreBeautiful?

by henrick sales and marcus lomboy

This is for my friends who thinks scars on the face are ugly.
And for every girl who thinks they are ugly. And for every girl in general.
This is for you.

Putting on make up to make up for your insecurities. So you put on that mask made of mascara and foundation on your face. But we can see it in your eyes, hiding in those shadows. You are beautiful. Even if the foundation of your confidence is built on water and oil.
But we all know oil and water don’t mix so it’s BP’s job to start cleaning off the fish.
Because there’s something fishy going on here.


The only reason people tell you you’re ugly…is for profit.
See, the entire cosmetics industry is built on telling girls they’re ugly.
They tell you you’re not pretty enough…
Not skinny enough…
Not curvy enough….
Or that your eyelashes need to be 120% longer or else you’re not as pretty as you could be. So they advertise their products.
Invading your space with in your face ads like…
“Use this new face cream. Apply to your face every day, twice a day until effects show…or until you’re out of money to buy some more.”
OR
That you eat…so you eat too much. And that your body don’t look right without a flat stomach and Kim Kardashian’s badonkadonk. So you better lose fat, lose weight, and gain a date…before turning eight.

But some conditions may apply.

Even though you’re not really fixing anything.
When you already have everything.

Like how your colored contacts only hide your dark brown eyes when I already swear that the night sky hides inside them every time the sun is out. And your foreign scars look like Japanese calligraphy on skin spelling out imitations of beauty. Or that your highest heels can barely get you past my chin…because the best things can come in the smallest packages. That your fat is just your fitness showing off so that you can be noticed.
Because we love handles!

Because your imperfections make you…you.
And you are beautiful!

Beautiful like how the blind can hear, and how the deaf can see and how the mute can tell you you are beautiful. So listen closely. *sign language*
And I don’t care if you aren’t “perfect”!
Because contrary to popular belief, and something that does give us relief…is that there is more than one type of beauty.
See, we don’t care if you don’t look like a star…because they are not real people. They are fictitious creations molded by directors with their own ideas of what somebody should look like. So girl everywhere believe the lies, because they see it on their TV screens.

That they’re not pretty enough…
Not skinny enough…
Not curvy enough…
Not plastic enough.

Because when being made up is the new trend, even the mannequins are more real than you. But we think it’s time for a change.

So wipe those lies off of your face!
And start eating real food! Forget Barbie ever existed!
And stop that snap, snap, snapping of angles for profile pics. That is NOT you!

Stop letting your worth be dictated by the tags on your clothes. And hiding your soul so we can read you like genetic codes, then we can understand you the way you’re meant to be. Instead of studying your reflection, looking for every imperfection like..

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?
You are.
No, you are.
No. YOU ARE! And don’t let anybody tell you otherwise!

Learn that all of that can only take you so far
Because calling yourself ugly is worse than any scar. It’s skin deep.

And I’d rather have a nine than a ten, because that one flaw is what makes you beautiful when everybody starts looking the same. Be honest…
When every girl on the planet has the same curves…
And the perfect chest-to-ass ratio.
I’d want that one fat chick! That one flat chick! That one small chick! That one tall chick! Who’s beautiful in her own way.

So don’t laugh at me if I tell you that she’s beautiful…
Or she’s beautiful…
Or you’re definitely beautiful.

Because beauty isn’t something that everybody sees. That’s why the most beautiful of girls have the lowest self-esteem.
But to be honest, I think there’s only one word to describe every girl.
One word they all want to be, but they already are they just cannot see that every girl is *beautiful*.

AHandfulOfSincereApologiesBecauseIt'sTheBestICanDo

The words I had carefully laced in my apology had barely left my lips
When I looked into her eyes.
She said nothing.

Her lips quivered like she was facing her darkest fears
In a nightmare she couldn’t escape…
The pain, too much to place into words
And in that moment, time stopped.
And I swear…I swear I could hear her heart
Fighting against the confines of her ribcage
Yearning for emancipation
From every blow it had ever taken

Each bruise from every leap of faith into unknown arms
Every ‘I love you’ and ‘forever and always’ sugar coating ulterior motives
Every mistake.
Mistakes she blames herself for
Thinking they were her fault.
But they never were.

Her eyes doing backstrokes in an ocean
She held it in
Saving her tears in the piggy bank under her eyes
Already filled to capacity with every regret she ever had
She saves them, trying to refill the trust fund
That experience had slowly diminished.

And it hurt more than anything she could ever say.

Her muted emotions
Interspersed through the silence of her gaze
The sound reverberated off eardrums and hollow walls
Because sometimes, silence is the loudest sound you can make.

For every word she refused to say
I died inside a thousand times
And all I could say was…”I’m sorry”
And I meant it with every fibre of my existence
Not just for everything I’ve done wrong
But a universal apology

An “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you that night”
Or “I’m sorry that somebody showed you the darkest side of men
And not the best that we have to give you.”
An “I’m sorry that my touch might remind you of his
And that he chained himself to your memories, and even the best of them can hurt”
“I’m sorry that even the most honest choose to hide behind the guise of a lie”
And “I’m sorry that my promises are fragile figurines
That I break like eye contact in staring contests because I’m afraid of getting lost in your eyes without breadcrumbs…”

But I always had the best intentions
Yet it breaks my heart that an apology is the best I can do.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs
Rage because I can do no better than to utter a few words
Words that anybody can say and not mean
I want to yell until you believe me that everything will be alright
That you are still perfect no matter what you hold against yourself
And what you’ve been through

And as I looked into her eyes
Tears ready to dive from her lashes
I realized that sometimes silence
Is the loudest sound you can make.

Salvation'sInTheCollectionBasket

I was born and raised a Catholic.
Brought up by an open-minded mom and a dad who displayed pious devotion to his faith, I thought I had the path to heaven paved for me.
But I’ve since learned that things hardly turn out the way they’re supposed to.
Because long gone are the days where I treated life as a game and the bible as the manual, trying to use its passages as passages to reach the kingdom. Trying to escape but I’m tired of it…I’m sick and tired of fools using Jesus as excuses for their ignorance.

So I wrote this poem, ballpoint to the point of breaking making indents on the cursed snake’s skin. With a pen I carved from the rib of Adam filled with the mistakes and regrets of the first lady…so I buried the forbidden fruit in the compost heap.

The religion’s latest dropout, but I’m finding my own way to get back in his good graces. But constantly I’m fighting the urge to fight with angels holding fiery swords and kick down the gates into paradise. But I can’t believe in it anymore..

Because if earth is hell, and hell is worse…
then everybody escaped to heaven and heaven was gentrified first.
So what if heaven had a ghetto?
Pearly gated communities with saints as security
So they trade their halos for wedding rings and offspring too naïve to listen to their parents when they tell them not to look down on the less fortunate that they donate their faith to every Sunday
While the rest live in thunderclouds
Drifting in public transit as they ride rays of light from state to state with tokens
And using condensation as train stations, commuting from rain drops to snowflakes
Taking express routes in the lightning.
Noses deep in hymn books, wearing frames that hold their vision like stained glass scenes in chapels praying that their prayers make the long journey across the street.
But as soon as they leave, they’re lining up down the block at the corner store holding food stamps for salvation but sincerity is long sold out.
Living off welfare, but they still don’t fare well, so they bid their farewells because love don’t live here.
Walking to perpetual Sunday school to witness devils doing drivebys and guardian angels duck and their wings shrivel in fear like they saw a deep fryer and they’re in lineups, trying to point out the kingpin but Satan’s in the shadows, smirk on his face laughing at how naïve we are..

Because we expect freedom and happiness, and clouds made of marshmallows and roads paved with gold, but what if nothing changes? What if the change we refuse to put in the donation basket that we keep telling ourselves we need is worth just as much as a prayer and a good deed, just tax deductible.
What if heaven had a ghetto and their system’s just as messed up as it is here and there’s nothing we can do about it? No programs, no donations, no change.
But even if that was the case…I’m leaving change and my own version of salvation in the collection basket..hoping you do the same.

IWantedToWriteALovePoem

I want to write the most amazing love poem. A love poem I could never dare dream of one-upping no matter how many times I replayed Super Mario Bros. or wrote to Santa asking for redo’s and cheat codes for creativity.

I want to make Christmas lists for secret Santa’s and cards for Cupid just so that I would get an opportunity to tell you the following things.
I want to understand you deeper than anyone else ever has.
I want to get lost in the maze inside of your fingerprints, or in the forest of filaments that is your hair shining like tungsten in light bulbs. I want my fingertips to tap dance a love poem in Morse code on the most sensitive part of your torso, to make your knees quiver like archer’s ammo and caress your skin to read your goosebumps like Braille and send electrical charges down the wires in your spinal cord.

I want seconds with you to feel like minutes, and minutes to feel like days, and days to feel like years because monthsaries are stupid….and I don’t understand why you’d even want to celebrate one.
Maybe because you can’t keep a relationship for even a year.
But believe me when I say I would work to keep you by my side until hell freezes over, or dinosaurs come back to life, or the zombie apocalypse happens, or robots take over, or aliens invade or…

You just don’t love me anymore.

But even then, I’d still toil like construction workers building a new foundation.
Because I don’t want to hold you in my arms…

I want to hide you on an island with me. Or a cryogenic chamber so that I could have you forever. The most delicate yet beautiful creature frozen in time like roses dipped in liquid nitrogen, playing hide and seek with the passing of time and the wilting of whispers of forever’s and murmurs of always.

I want to write a love poem about slipping that fluffy slipper on your foot at the stroke of midnight, because glass heels look uncomfortable. I want to Marty McFly to the exact second you were born and yell “DIBS!” to your parents for your hand in marriage for my infatuated and totally in love 25 year-old self. I want to play connect-the-dots with the stars and find an image of you.

I want you to be my inspiration, my muse. When I slave over my words to build a masterpiece like Egyptian slaves building pyramids, you can force me to keep going with simple flicks of your lashes…that frame your eyes like edges on a Scrabble piece worth one point but placed on a triple word square its worth gets multiplied from simple beginnings with so much potential.

I want to be so comfortable with you that I could tell you anything and everything.
Like how my arms are jealous of the way your blanket gets to stay wrapped around you every night. Or how my shoulders envy how your pillow gently holds your head while you dream about something other than me. Or how my compliments are jealous of the oxygen in your lungs, the way you accept it so gratefully and then it settles so close to your heart.

And I could tell there’s something wrong as soon as you say, “It’s nothing.” Because your problems are like tongues the way they remain hidden behind your smile, only being revealed if someone pays enough attention to look closely. Or when they’re forced out of your mouth by necessity like a gag reflex. Then I would type my apologies and words of comfort on tablets of vitamins and Tylenol hoping they would make you feel better.

I want to write a list of everything I want and see how you react to it, then maybe I would read it on stage, or read it to you in private, or just send it to you with a "Sincerely yours," but really I just want you to get the message.
I want to tell you all of this…but I can’t. So I wrote it in a love poem.

ComplimentsAndACompleteLackThereof

I've since stopped giving girls compliments.

Because no matter what I tell you, you never believe me. Like you’ve been conditioned to think that I would make this shit up when I don’t really believe it. But I do.
And I don’t say these things to get in your pants. That’s far from my plans, like the Millennium Falcon landing in that asteroid with that giant worm that almost swallowed them whole. It’s not something I want to happen. But I digress.
See, you think you’re just okay or anything less than. But I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen and I just wish that you could see yourself through my eyes. Because to me, you’re cuter than Siberian husky puppies playing a game of tag with baby giant panda bears.
Think of an 80 year old married couple holding hands in the park like they were right out of the last scene of The Notebook. Or actions from A Walk To Remember, but with me doing all of them to you, to the specifications of your own bucket list. And yes that includes naming a star after you, because I will totally do that for you.
From a baby’s first words amid incoherent noises and babble to words crafted by poets that can make entire audiences go “Awwwww.”
You’re cuter than that.
Imagine chubby children running in playgrounds with dimpled, clenched fists and a toothless smile so full of joy that it could make you wish you were a parent already.
You’re cuter than all of that.
Now think of the most adorable thing that’s ever existed.
Yep. You’re still cuter.
See, you’re the reason that I wish I wasn’t a poet, but an artist. Because words can’t come close to describing how you look to me. But I can’t paint, sculpt or draw…
So I’m stuck here wishing that I could speak every language in the world. Just so that I could tell you how beautiful you are everyday in a different dialect. Hoping that it would convince you that you are much more than just okay because the entire world has their own way of calling you beautiful. And the bonus is that I would never sound cliche.
But then again, I’ve already stopped giving girls compliments.

MakeLove

"Let's make love."
One sentence that will never roll off my tongue and come out of my mouth.
I will never “make love”, because I don’t know what love is made out of.
So what if I don’t have the building tools? No, T-square to take the right angles at a-cute actions while I plan out the blueprints from the get-go. Or a metre stick just to see if it measures up to what we expected. You flash a smile, eyes contact and I beam…but it’s a shallow replacement for a concrete foundation and I-beams. But I’m no architect.
And what if I don’t have metres worth of PVC? But all that does is turn the whole relationship into nothing more than a pipe dream of what we wish it would turn into. Wishing that the wooden panels keep the frame of the relation-ship steady in the tide instead of creating walls between us. Because the insulation in these hollow walls don’t do well to keep the warmth inside when the frigid air seeps in between us, and the love starts escaping…little by little. So I’m wishing that I wouldn’t need to rely on a hammer, nails and glue to keep it together when the shit starts falling apart. Because I’m no carpenter.
Or what if it’s not the question of how to make love, but about what we can make out of it? Like “love” is just a bunch of pieces that interlock like Lego’s or jigsaw pieces to make up the bigger picture? That would totally make sense because love never had instructions or a recipe laminated in the box it came in. It was something that people just took in their hands to try to create something beautiful out of.
Not beautiful for everyone else…but something that they saw as beautiful, like Pygmalion crafting a statue. And all of a sudden, they’re in love with love.

IWantToBeAPoet

Hi. I’m Marcus and I…want to be a poet.
And I know what some of you are thinking.
“But Marcus! You’re a great poet.”…Really?
You telling me I’m a good poet is like me telling you, you’re beautiful.
You wouldn’t believe me either.
And that’s one of the reasons I want to be a poet.
I want to be able to tell you you’re beautiful in a way that would make you believe it yourself. But I don’t want to be your typical Romeo. I want to be that insensitive asshole that will tell you everything you don’t want to hear but still convince you that you’re pretty.

I want to tell you when the hair on your legs is getting spiky and out of hand. That when that happens, it reminds me of a hedgehog or a porcupine. The cutest little thing protecting itself from all the assholes out there that would complain, or make fun of you about it. Or like the thorns on the stem of a rose…

I want to tell you that all the make up you have on your face makes you look like a complete whore. Or a mime. Because I would think you were the prettiest girl I’ve ever met in just sweats and a ponytail. That I like your face on its own…like a biscuit from Popeyes…or just through a conversation on the phone without your voice being weighed down by Sephora products. I don’t even think that’s possible, unless they made a breathmint.

That your clumsiness, is the most adorable thing. And every single thing you’ve broken because of that…well, I didn’t like them anyway.
That you…are flat-chested. And I couldn’t care less. That way, nothing distracts me from looking your face. With the tiniest little nose, I’m surprised you can even smell anything.

Glasses on your face so you're scared of being called 'four eyes'. But look here four eyes, it's just more of your eyes to look into.

Because I want to tell you that you don’t have the most amazing blue…or hazel eyes behind those frames. And I’m fine with that. That I can spend hours lost in the darkness of your pupils and I swear to God that the night sky retreats into your eyes every time the sun is out.

I want to tell you. That you…are fat. But I like it because holding you keeps me warm in the wintertime. Or that you...are a midget and all the high heels in the world won't lift you higher than my chin. But they say the best things can come in the smallest packages and you are living proof that they can.

And I don't care if you tell the corniest and lamest jokes, because I still laugh knowing that you being funny doesn't matter because I'd try to be funny enough for the both of us.

I want to learn every single language in the world and tell you that you are beautiful in a different way every chance I got. But I would never tell you what it actually meant. So you would always wonder if I was saying something bad about you. Which I wouldn’t be, I promise.

I want to be a poet, just to tell you that it’s your imperfections that make you imperfectly perfect to me. Because I like your clumsiness, I like your flat chest and your little nose. I like your glasses, and I love your love-handles...well...eh. I like your dark eyes. I like every single one of those things because they make you...you. And I wouldn't have you any other way.

ACompletelyLogicalFearOfMonsters

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been scared of monsters.
But every time they would come up in conversation…I would just chuckle and smile. Trying to hide the fact that I checked underneath my bed and in my closet every night in some absurd routine. Putting my faith in the dream catcher hanging above my head every night I would lull myself to sleep but only nightmares were tangled in its net.
So I would fend off the shadows, armed with only a flashlight and my own words. Convincing myself that I would never be safe, and so I refused to sleep.

I thought I’d grown out of it. So every time they would come up in conversation I would just smile and say, “Monsters are just a figment of your imagination.”
But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve come to believe in monsters and the terrors that the night hides from rays of sunlight and the watchful eyes of God.
And I realized that the things that go bump in the night are only messengers sending codes in Morse, urging me to stop hiding in the corners of my room.
But I was scared.

Because I have not only seen a monster…I’ve seen one created before my very eyes. As it stood before me, fully formed, I could no longer smile.
So how could I not believe in monsters?
When I’ve seen you tear tears from the eyes of women like it was nothing but a game. A challenge…just to prove your own self worth. So you squeeze yourself into a human facsimile like a perverted version of Halloween.

Monster, how dare you look like me?
Masquerading as my reflection in the mirror. Controlling my actions by plucking on marionette strings by the names of envy and insecurity.
You thrive in the dark…always leaving me on a search for happiness I just can’t seem to find. You always insist on hiding it in the deepest corners of my existence so by design, I would spend my next lifetimes looking for it. Malevolent and cunning to the core, and when you speak…it reeks so strongly of sin and brimstone that it could make God cringe. Angels on the bus avoid you on instinct, and what was once beautiful wilts at your touch. I refuse to eat or drink, afraid that I would vomit more sin into the world because I can’t stomach how similar we are. Your behaviour sickens me.
Monster, how dare you walk like me, talk like me? Breathe the same air as me?
Monster, how dare you steal my innocence?
So to everyone the monster on top my bed has hurt, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I’m too much alike every person that’s ever hurt you. I’m sorry that I never cared enough. Or that I cared too much. I’m sorry that I didn’t turn out to be the person that you wanted me to be.
So every time I look into your eyes, it’s torture. It torments me because I never wanted to be like you. Monster…why do you make me shoulder all the blame for what you’ve done?
So ever since then I’ve worked shifts of broken promises and contracts with strangers trying to send you back to where you came from. But even if I succeeded…another one would just take your place. Because the world is full of monsters like you.

IHateGirls!

I HATE GIRLS!
I mean…I don’t hate all of them.
Just those…those hella complicated ass girls.
I mean those...
you could try for a life time and never even slightly understand them ass girls.

And those…

Those stupid ass girls.
Those wear 3D glasses around the mall ass girls.
Those other girl has something they want so they start hating ass girls.
Those make a big deal out of nothing ass girls.
Those try so hard to be noticed but never get a mention ass girls.
Those got a Formspring account but never get a mention ass girls.
Those on Tumblr all day reblogging the same crap ass girls.
Those never go anywhere unless they’re in a pack ass girls.
Those wear leggings and tights as pants ass girls.
Those wasting their time dating assholes and douchebags ass girls.
Those post pictures saying they’re ugly while fishing for compliments ass girls.
Those thinking they’re the shit ass girls.
Those thinking they’re worth shit ass girls.
Those expect guys to do everything for them ass girls.
Those think they’re drunk after taking one sip of alcohol ass girls.
Those put the worthwhile guys in the friend zone ass girls.
Those can’t let go of their ex after forever ass girls.
Those boots with the fur ass girls….well, I don’t really mind them.
Those never stop talking ass girls.
Those never start talking ass girls.
Those Facebook status updates of song lyrics ass girls.
YEAH! Those “Can we pretend that airplanes in the night skies are like shooting stars ‘cos I could really use a wish right now” ass girls!

I hate those girls…
But I haven’t even gotten to the girls I really hate.
I mean I just hate those…

Those think they have to show skin to be noticed type girls.
Those got a lot to say but too shy to voice their thoughts type girls.
Those think they’re fat because their dress size is an actual number type girls.
Those beautiful soul but get passed in the halls type girls.
Those want something great to happen but aren’t willing to take a chance type girls.
Those quick to believe gossip but will never believe a compliment type girls.
Those gave up on what they want because society said differently type girls.
Those perfectly fine but completely insecure type girls.
Those won’t eat because they don’t want to be seen as fat type girls.
Those stopped believing in love because of one bad experience with an asshole type girls.

But just to get it straight, I don’t hate every girl.
Just most of them. Thank you.

WhyDoYouBelieveCosmeticsCompainesAndNotMe?

Okay, I get it.

You put on layers of make up to make up for the fact that you can’t get your mind made up on who you really want to be. So you put on that mask made of mascara and foundation on your face, meaning that the foundation of your confidence is built on water and oil.

But we all know oil and water don’t mix, so it’s BP’s job to start cleaning off the fish.

‘Cos there’s something fishy going on here…

You treat every outing with your girlfriends as a photo-op, knowing damn well you won’t post one of yourself without a little Photoshop. Not knowing if people like you for what your momma gave you, or maybe it’s Maybelline.

Because the entire cosmetics industry is built on telling girls they’re ugly. Either they’re not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not curvy enough or that your eyelashes need to be 120% longer or else you’re not as pretty as you could be.
That if you eat, you eat too much. That your body don’t look right without silicone tits, a flat stomach and Kim Kardhashian’s badonkadonk.

So you conceal your insecurities with concealers, fighting signs of aging because you relate wrinkles to looser skin. Afraid your mask will fall off, while wishing you could just lose your skin and just be seen for what’s inside, as the strings on your mask begin to loosen and we see you more for who you really are.

A girl. Just like any other, hoping she could stand out. So she wears lipstick the same shade as bright rose petals to frame the words that escape from her lips. An attempt to hook a gentleman that wouldn’t mind getting intimate as he pays attention to her intellect, so she feigns confidence in her high heels. Hoping to turn finding a mate into a game of inches granted by the stiletto at her heels. Because everyday she walks on daggers and egg shells, afraid to lose the façade because she doesn’t fit the mold.

But I don’t care if you don’t look like a movie star.

Because they are not real women. They are fictitious creations molded by a man behind a desk with pen and paper with his own idea of what somebody should look like. So girls everywhere believe the lies…because they see it on their TV screens

That they’re not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not curvy enough…not plastic enough. That it’s wrong to be real…

That Jersey Shore is better to look at than, that girl sitting in the corner of the room reading a book. That tanned orange skin somehow makes you think less Willy Wonka oompa loompas and more of a lifestyle spent in gyms. That reality shows are what’s good and that reality shows our real flaws and it’s not acceptable.

Because we have to look perfect…the way nobody really is.
So you continue hiding behind your mask, so perfectly crafted by manufacturers to convince you that you…don’t want to be you anymore.
Because you take compliments with a grain of salt but take anything negative to heart like it was fact.

So miss, you’re ugly because you let them convince you are.

It’s not the shape you’re in, or how your genes dictated way your face is arranged that make you beautiful. It’s cliché to state the fact but it’s what lies behind the cover of the book that keeps a reader interested.

So if you never believe a compliment…you’re hideous for not letting your beautiful soul shine through.