I don’t know where the hell she came from or why everyone told me to call her by her first name. I was raised with a sensation that everyone had met her but me. Some had seen her dressed in red lace, others saw her in her brother’s hand-me-downs. Her voice would be silky, she’d have effortless grace, she was patient, she’d be taller than me, smart, funny, easy on the eyes, have hair that’s always been perfect. That was her…

I don’t know why I didn’t see there was a part of her right there every time my grandmother never settled for less than she deserved, a part of her was there when my mother made everything alright, there’s a lot of her in my sister’s death stare, in my best friend’s company, in my niece’s rebel spirit, she sips my cousin’s margaritas, she’s in Wisconsin, she’s in Maine, she’s in Arizona, she’s in Japan, she’s the stranger who smiled at me yesterday, I saw her tonight when she ordered 3 glasses of rosé. Something in me practically knelt down and begged for forgiveness the day I knew for certain that the title wasn’t made for me, or you, or her. What a lazy way to describe the kind of women you know, the woman you love, the woman that loves you, the woman that raised you, the women you’ll meet. Yes—yes, perhaps there will come a day you swear you met the one that is unparalleled to the rest but she’ll be the product of other “ultimate beauties” who gave much more of themselves to create the kind of person who can’t be encompassed by the singular, fragile and fictitious title:

The Most Beautiful Woman in the World

I think to all the women in my life now, the women who I met once and never forgot, to the women I’m destined to meet, the women who came before me, the women that’ll come after me. They hold the world in the palm of their hands every time they show people like me what they’re capable of, what they’ve been through and where they’re going. I think back to myself as a little girl blindingly buying into the idea that beauty can be defined, that it’s black and white, measured, unanimous. I think to myself now, the woman I want to become and I can promise you that I’d of drowned in the search of looking for some sort of absolute appeal. Pinning, paying and praying for the beauty that will never be defined and a cheap title.

The most beautiful woman in the world does not exist.


One thought on “Fictitious

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s