Am I Pretty

A young girl struggles with her image.

I feel pretty most of the time. I look in the mirror, turn my feet inward, suck in my stomach and smile. This is pretty--the clothes, the make-up and the build-up of hair product clinging to each perfect strand of hair. Plus-size girls can be pretty. I’ve seen it in magazines and on instagram. But without all those filters�"the clothes, the make-up and the build-up of hair product that clings to each unruly piece of hair�"am I still pretty? Some people say so--late at night when the music begins to die down and there are only a few people left dancing. My alcohol-ridden body pressed against him. Then I am pretty. Sweet kisses around my ears tell me so. I take refuge in those kisses. But I am only a refugee for so long, because in the morning all I am left with is my reflection asking me if I am pretty. I shake off the question as I begin to reapply my make-up.