Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty.
She'd never thought of herself as anything close to it. Too tall, too dark, too weird-looking in general, too much stomach fat and too small a face and too much that was just plain wrong.
Too little personality at first and then too weird a personality later. Too much for other people to deal with.
Too timid to speak up, too hinged on other people's expectations of her.
Too affected by what others said, too stupid to bring up her own ideas or her own thoughts.
And how that's changed.
Now she's got personality and thoughts and ideas and strength. She is tall, she does have a small face, she does have kinda dark skin and she does have stomach fat. She does have blemishes and scars and bruises and wounds and vulnerable spots.
She's not perfect.
There's a lot she can't do. There's a lot she can't be.
But fuck anyone who tells her she's not pretty.
When inspiration hits, it's with a baseball bat. Made of metal.
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Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty.