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I’ve never been a pretty woman.
No, those words never felt right on my skin.
My knees are too skinned and scratched to ever be lovely.
I’ve never been a pretty woman.
Could never fit into the boxes laid out for me.
My hips never kept time, instead they dipped and rolled with the moon.
I’ve never been a pretty woman.
I don’t get polish or gloss.
Instead, I paint my toes with the sands of the desert and let the sun be my blush.
I’ve never been a pretty woman, my hands are too calloused from climbing, paddling, living.
No, I’m not a pretty woman.
I’ve never claimed to be.
Instead, I’m wild, I’m free.
My legs, scarred and strong, carry me over mountains and through rivers.
My hair always a bit out of control, a testament to the wild that dwells in my soul.
No, I’m not a pretty woman.
I run naked through the canyons, my body moving with the rhythm of the desert.
No, I’m not a pretty woman.
I’ve never claimed to be.
I’ve walked away from trying to fit a mold never made for me.
No I’m not a pretty woman and I’ll never try to be.
I’ll simply just be me.
Wild and free.
I’ll dance in the desert,
Letting the sun line my face and the clay color my legs.
No, I’m not a pretty woman.
I’m wild and free.
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