Swan Princess | Teen Ink

Swan Princess

April 4, 2016
By Emma.H.96 DIAMOND, Kalamazoo, Michigan
Emma.H.96 DIAMOND, Kalamazoo, Michigan
65 articles 0 photos 67 comments

Favorite Quote:
You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better. -Anne Lamott, from Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.

When I was younger I dreamed about growing up and transforming into a beautiful girl much like how Barbie transformed into the Swan Princess. My dream was that I would sprout my feathers and they would shine under all the lights of the stars millions of miles away. Each year I've waited; no feathers yet.

I am plain. I'm not inherently beautiful. My eyes don't sparkle; my hair doesn't shine and bounce when I spin. My skin isn't tanned and my teeth are not pristine white. I am flawed. There is a scar above my eyebrow from potty training. There is a scar on my knee from tripping over my brother. There is a scar below my nail from a bee sting. I am covered in my mistakes.

My hair is dark brown and light brown and red and blonde from all the times its normal hue didn't satisfy me. No matter how many times I take my makeup off there is always a little residue around my eyes. There is a cavity in my tooth that I forget about every night when I go to sleep and I run my tongue over it each morning when I brush my teeth. There is a patch of hair along my forehead that has been short and wispy since I yanked a doll comb through it when I was eight.

There are a set of three thin marks on my calf from when I was learning how to shave my legs. There are stretch marks on my thighs from the times I gained weight and lost it and gained it and lost it. My voice is not twinkling; it holds a roughness from yelling out counts at band camp for five years. My toes crack when I move them from taking ballet when I was little.

I used to think these things were flaws along my body, reasons to hate myself, reasons to wish I were someone else. But these-these are my feathers. These are my wings. This is what I have sprouted after all of these years.
There is a roughness about me where I have made my mistakes; I have been places. That is what has shaped me. I am not afraid to climb a tree in fear it will mar my skin, I have dozens of scars, I simply know where to put my feet now. My feathers are there to guide me, to show me I know a better way. I am a walking picture book of where I have been and I wouldn’t paint myself any other way.

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