Ugly Beautiful Cute




My reflection ripples, teasing me.

I bite my already bitten lip, as my chin quivers.

My eyes dart.

I take in what’s on the surface of my mirror.

My frizzy, untamed hair.

My squinting eyes placed smack bang on my way-too-round face.

My fatty thighs standing next to each other like two, enourmous pork sausages.

My pasty completion.

And my tummy that resembles a beach ball which has been blown up far more than needed.

My chubby hand reaches out to touch the woeful image before me.

I recoil, becoming angry at myself.


Why was it me that looked like this?

Could it be?

Surely not.

Maybe this was some fantasy dream, where I would wake up, drenched in sweat, and then remember I’m beautiful.

I would stroke my silky hair, admire my slender figure, and grin, knowing I looked a million dollars.

But no.

I realise that I’ll just wake up, remember how I look, pat my unruly head of hair, hate my self, and cry, knowing I looked five cents; not a million dollars.

It was true.

I’m, I’m,


The word that held sadness in the way that I held hatred towards myself.

I looked back at my self.




I throw myself onto my bed that growns under my shocking weight.

Instinctively, I reach into my pocket for my phone, and start flipping through social media.

All I see is people.

Pretty people.

Beautiful people.

My eyes ache, taking it all in, when, stop.

My finger hovers over a picture.

I press down hard.

A model.

The picture is of a model.

Not a model whose legs and arms could be mistook for tanned sticks, no.

A beautiful, round model.

A model who isn’t as thin as most other people I see, crowding the media.

She has frizzy hair, similar to mine, but somehow, I don’t find it ugly.

I see a figure that’s more natural, full of curves and twists, like me.

I see her confidence, her pride, and a bit of her pride sticks to me.

I slam my phone down hard onto my blanket.

Fearlessly, I march over to my mirror and stare at myself.



I’m not ugly.

I see curves, I see frizz, I see me.

I see me and ‘me’ looks good.

Ok. No more Miss.Self-pity.

“Toughen up, buttercup.” I growl at myself.

This is a new regime.

I see my reflection.

I smile.


On and on I do this, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Weeks have gone by.

It’s time.

I look at my reflection, and instead of smiling, I take in every detail.

Frizzy hair.


Many curves.




I’m beautiful.

I’m strong.

I’m resilient.

I’m me.

Hi everyone!

I wrote this, just to show you, that if you feel like this at times, you feel exasperated with the way you look, your not alone. And never, ever forget…..

There’s no such thing as ugly.❤️



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