I am what they call plain pretty,

an in-betweener

not really pretty

not really plain

and I attract guys

who see me as a compromise

from what they really what--

the cheer leader blond

with the hot bod.

I am the bland personality

with pretty eyes

a weak chin;

cautious

with an intense gaze 

reflecting my need

to have more than what I am ever offered

by guys who are plain-pretty too

or too too nice or have the slow

uptake of the often rejected.

My world offers me only the boring.

I could do something I suppose

but I missed the ring;

I was the also ran,

the next to the last chosen

the bridesmaid;

the sidekick;

the not-as-pretty friend

and what I did was to break

free of  my old world

and soar

with plastic surgery.

Last year I took the knife and now I am strangely pretty

but I still know who I am inside

and that is disturbing;

and more disturbing is that I want to 

reject the guys seeking pretty

for the times the rejected me as almost pretty

and that makes me feel pretty-strange;

angry and not lovable;

not an airhead now--

but the trophy.

I thought last night

how almost-pretty

might have been easier

and more me.