If I were prettier,
​
My hair would never dry with the breeze and my legs
would be seen from a glass.
​
My name would be written in giant and then the sky
would not seem so high.
​
Although if I were prettier, they would paint on my
body and every brushstroke would hide the cracks of
the sketches that still look out in front of my eyes.
​
The six centimeters of the heel would be part of my
bones and the number of my measurements would
never be within any figure.
​
We drown between waves that only rub our legs trying
to leave a mark. To then implore the drought to keep our
rosebush young.
​
If I were prettier, the air of the windows would stick its
judgments in form of hugs on my back.
​
Time would pass over the color of my hair without
trying to hide, but at the end it stays in the winter.
​
Even if I were prettier, I would probably like to be
someone else.