Gorgeous

Regardless of my frizzy hair,
my wrinkled pants, my baggy eyes;
no matter if my shirt fits right
or if I’ve munched on one donut too many;
even when I’m exhausted, frazzled, worn—
Marcell looks at me
and calls me “Gorgeous.”
With a big grin on his face,
with eyes full of love,
with hands high in the air,
Marcell shouts his announcement:
that I am “So pretty.”
I wonder what the world would be like
if we could all disregard
a mismatched outfit, a missing tooth,
a crooked nose, a shade of skin,
an accent, a stain, a stench,
one shower too few,
one cigarette too many.
What if we saw everyone as gorgeous,
the way Marcell does?
And what if—like Marcell—
we didn’t hesitate to tell them so?