My hands move through my
Brown hair.
I decide to call it brunette since
it sounds French and
Pretty.
I look at my eyes in the mirror.
I'm tired, and it's one of those moments when
I wish they were just one, vibrant color.
They stay kinda blue, kinda green, kinda gray,
kinda … chicken nugget-flecked around the pupil.
I decide to call it gold since
it sounds rich and
Pretty.
My lips are just a little dry but
they part nicely, on their own, as I look at myself.
They're a mix of Mom and Dad's shape.
I decide to call it my own since
it sounds nice and
Pretty.
My own.
And I decide I don't look that bad
In the morning.