All the lace in the world won't make me beautiful, thank goodness.

It was never my idea,

This coming out into the world,

A mass of crinolines to disguise my shape,

Arranging my hair this way, and that, and just anywhere to hide what can't be hidden.

Custom is cruel like this.

We must all go through the motions,

The singers try to write of my youth, fragile and pure,

Beauty like a flower, they say, and then fall about laughing.

I would, too.

How grateful I am not to have the burden of actually being a flower.

Gentle, resigned, looking out from under lashes so too much spark of curiosity won't show.

When you are a scarred oak,

You can spark as much as you like.

You can stare brazenly back when they stare at you.

You can laugh, which is the only time you love your own face.

When they call your name,

You can raise your head to the sky and be proud.

Beauty must pretend not to be vain,

But the broken who know their worth lift their eyes.