Beneath Your Beautiful

Would you let me see beneath your beautiful
Would you let me see beneath your perfect
Take it off now girl, take it off now girl
I wanna see inside
Would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight

I saw him on the train, and I surreptitiously checked my reflection in the mirror, fluffed my hair, made sure I looked alright. I watched his reflection in the glass to see if he noticed me. When the crowd cleared from the train, that's when I saw the stick. My heart ached for him, for the colors he would never see, for not knowing how his own face looked, for never seeing beauty in the world. But my heart ached for me too, imagining being with someone who would never truly be able to tell me that he thought I was beautiful.

Am I so selfish, so vein, I thought. Am I so focused on external qualities that I can't appreciate the inner essence of a person? Do I really need someone to tell me every day that they think I look pretty, that I'm attractive and my hair is nice? Doesn't the inside count more? Isn't the compliment that much more sincere when someone tells you how they feel about you without ever being able to see you?

Like many females out there, I've had body image problems my whole life. As a teenager I imagined the countless boys who would look at me and tell me how hot they thought I was, how attractive I was. I didn't want just one boy, I wanted all the boys. I wanted to walk into a room and have heads turn to look at me, and say, damn that girl is hot, I want her to be mine.

Yes, as a frum girl we are brought up and taught all about tznius, how our beauty is on the inside, how we should cover up and hide our beauty from the world and share it only with one special person. Well, telling that to a teenager makes no sense, when all we see glaring at us from the covers of every magazine and every movie and every tv show are drop-dead-makes-your-heart-throb gorgeous models, the kind that guys salivate over, the kind that turns guys into mute blubbering idiots. And all guys want to be with them, and all women hate them but secretly want to BE them.

I thought, maybe, just maybe if I showed a little skin, they would want me. Maybe if I grew out my hair, maybe if I wore more makeup. I went looking for them, and not in the places where frum girls should be. I drank, and thought, this is it. This is fun, this is being alive, this is attractive, look at me, LOOK AT ME!

And they did. And still I felt insecure. They don't want me for me, they want me for my body. For what I could give them. So when does it stop?

Close your eyes and tell me what you see in me. See me without your eyes. Learn me, everything about me, my heart, my soul, my mind. My mind is a beautiful place, and I'll share it with you if you asked.

Would I believe you if you told me you thought I was beautiful?
Would I believe you if you never ever saw my face and you told me I was beautiful?

But sometimes, even those with sight never actually see what is right in front of them.