Beauty > Intellect

Don’t tell me that intelligence is more valuable than beauty.

Not today, anyways.

Don’t tell me that being more intellectual than the gorgeous girl I compare myself to everyday is more rewarding than the potential of her eye-catching features

Don’t tell me that being a genius is as inspiring as being a model.

Please, don’t get my hopes up.

Because I see him looking at her as if it doesn’t mater what she says. Even if she tells him that the sun revolves around the earth, she’ll still be the center of his universe.

My smarts make me observant of the way he smiles at her, his smile as radiant as the sun itself. I’d rather be blissfully oblivious to the way he appreciates how stunning she is than painfully aware of it.

I’d rather be gorgeous than smart, because at least then he might see me as a person instead of as a brain. I’d rather resemble a model or a masterpiece than to be just another meteorite in his constellation of stars.

Don’t tell me that my I.Q is equivalent to success and that she will never amount to anything, because she’s already achieved everything I’ve ever hoped to. She’s already captured his heart.

Don’t tell me that intelligence wins wars against beauty, because it was the beauty of the Trojan Horse which allowed the Greeks to enter Troy.

Don’t tell me that being clever is just as rewarding as being prepossessing, not when she looks like a trophy herself.

Don’t tell me that the wiser outsmarted the alluring and created for herself a happily ever after. Don’t tell me that he would want to save me for being acute if cute wasn’t in the picture, because the prince only ever kissed the fairest one of all.

Don’t tell me that brains bests beauty, not today anyways.

Because even as smart as I may be, I feel like an idiot for seeing my image in the mirror and still densely wishing for him to be mine.

Don’t tell me that I am loved, when I’m not a necessity -not even deemed a luxury-, I’m deemed a convenience.

Don’t you dare tell me that she isn’t enamored. She’s his inspiration and he’d be lost without his muse. He writes love poems and sonnets about her elegance while I’m stuck writing eulogies for my shattered attempts at gaining his attention.

So I, who am witty and intelligent, can’t understand why anyone believes that beauty isn’t skin deep. It is. It always has been and always will be.

Don’t tell me that I am more darling on the inside than she could ever be, because that statement is false too. On the inside, I’m green with envy and hate. I abhor her simply because I want to be her, which makes me ugly in more ways than one.

Don’t tell me that I’ll find joy some day within my inventions and actions, because my only joy beats in his chest for her.

Don’t tell me that he’d ever have given me a chance if we had ever truly talked for longer than the minute, because it only took a second for him to fall in love with her.

Please, don’t make me cry any more tears.

Don’t lie to me and tell that I am beautiful, because if I was beautiful he might have been mine.

Don’t tell me my words are attractive, because those silent things never could have caught his eyes anyways

Don’t tell me that I’m pretty, not for my looks but for my thoughts, because neither of those could ever compare to Aphrodite’s grace.

#curatorreview