I secretly think that I am beautiful. Not all of the time, just every once in a while. Sometimes, alone, I will glance down at my tummy that pokes out a bit, my hips that are a little fuller than most, my hair that should be brown but wants to be red and the thin long lines of my fingers and I think I am beautiful. Not in spite of these flaws. Just separate from them. Sometimes I like the familiarity of my fuller tummy and freckled skin. They feel like home. The home in which I live a beautiful life.