I felt pretty when

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I felt pretty when

I was in the lilac sky, part of the atmosphere. When I was colourful, from my clothes to my cheeks, blushing with giddy optimism, spinning around in a stadium, wearing a purple dress. I felt pretty when I was known, finally. Gay. I exhaled. Lay on the grass, took off my shine like a jacket, and let greenness mark my palms. Stains of riches – beautifully dirty hands, synced with earth. Virgo at peace. I felt pretty, laughing with my friend – when we couldn’t stop laughing, not even when it became painful, stomach muscles crying out in unforgettable delight. Good growing pains, they were. I felt pretty when someone quietly captured a candid photo of me and I was pleasantly surprised with the result – the irritating reflection in my glasses, blemishes on my skin, asymmetry, and the misalignment of my teeth had nothing on the wideness of my smile – the way my cheeks stretched so high. Who knew they could stretch so high, or hurt so much from smiling? Who knew my eyes could sparkle like that even when they were squinting? Stunning chocolate stars glimmering in a flashlight.

I felt pretty with the sun on my face, making all of me golden, inside out. Strawberries’ sweetness danced on my tongue – a rumba turned into a disco as the clear evening arrived. I felt pretty while kissing, the softness of my lover’s lips meeting mine – they belonged pressed together. The world melted away and all I cared about was kissing. I felt pretty swimming in the sea, making mermaid movements under moonlight. Salty, tangled hair. Heavy breathing. My eyes didn’t miss my glasses – the world was a beautiful blur of watercolours and the past melted into pale yellow, like childhood bedroom walls. I felt pretty in pink, and lavender, and jade. I felt pretty with poetry pouring out of me, discovering my mind was a galaxy. I realised that I felt and thought and knew more than I knew.

I felt pretty when people came together and it was warm. We shared books and ideas and compliments and food. So much food – I was encouraged to eat more and more and more. I went to bed so bloated and so happy. I felt pretty, drunk on white wine. Listening to pretty music that had a lovely ache in its minor chords. I felt as pretty as I felt melancholic – as pretty as I felt positive, drawn to a gallery of goodness this country kindly invited me into. With understanding. With space for grief. With a perspective that uncovered more prettiness, painting new reflections of things I loved and lost – all the pretty versions of myself I’d been and could be. And what exactly that meant to me.