My entire life I’ve been called an eight. That’s like hearing “Congratulations, you’ve crossed the finish line, but you’re just a little too late.” As if this insipid number could tell the intricacies of what I’ve done with my life. “Yeah she’s great, but I’ve seen better.” Fuck that.
I am a ten out of ten, I am a diamond in the mine, maybe a little rough around the edges but that doesn’t change this heart of gold that burns bright inside and it’s mine. Nine months and a mother and father that took for my heart to grow, don’t ever be so naïve to think that I’d so easily let it go, I won’t. I assure you. I am the current in the ocean, not the seafoam on the surface, I run deep and strong and that’s the charm of it. Because the minute you turn your back that’s when you realize like a wave I’ve been growing on you the whole time. One day I’m just another friend, the next I become a girl to you and suddenly you find yourself wanting to merge those two words together like how your brain finally connected to your heart and you might even think that she’s a dime.
You see he’d be wrong, because no number could define this person, this mind. And lately I’ve been thinking, beauty is only relevant until it’s not. Like the surface tension on a pond, if you press just enough you find yourself on the other side and every beauty has a monster that lies in hiding.
But if I can’t shake this label, I guess an eight is alright, it scares away the thieves that come for shiny things in the night. And despite the stigma that follows, an eight is an empty number that can never label what I’ll be capable of doing tomorrow.
Stay Curious
-T. Updegraff
The Curious Nomad 