every ladies' lie

beauties in linen dresses, whimsy packaged in floral prints, melting brown eyes and the sheen of their hair pinned in soft curls with lilies tucked in. Knit cardigans draped over delicate frames so perfect and yet so real.

Why am I the way I am? Tailor, please stitch me up, better. Oh, how it'd be best if you just started over. Some days I despise what you've made.

Try on similar things--lovely things like they wore. They don't look the same on me, don't make me pretty. I am not lovely like them.

Here are two dresses, painstakingly found, now I am the rose, petalled by each soft flow of their feminine ease, frail and fragile, just as I should be. But modesty clips at my heart.

Might as well pull out the paper bag. Might as well hide in the potato sack. If we run far enough from all hints of evil, then beauty must just be a dangerous sin.
How there is no win. Here we are, stuck between conscience and the need to feel lovely. Two hours or three, how long has it been, since the search for a single shirt was set into place, and still no suitable wear. How much time is thrown out in trying to balance a tipping scale?

How do you erase scars from a biting lie that cuts through our hearts? How do we come to believe truth when we know it in our minds and still can't believe it in our cores? How do we accept what we've been given without settling the matter by stating we're lesser? We don't need to be told anymore, how lovely others think we are. Just open our hearts to believe truth like we should, please let it seep down deep in our souls, so that we KNOW that we KNOW what You've made is beautiful. Teach us where beauty lies. Tell us, oh Love, what is our beauty. Tell us, King, how to ravish Your heart.