Subway Cashier Girl

Dear Subway Cashier, who made you doubt?

I saw the words tattooed on your wrist, the black ink stark against your fair skin.

“I am art.”

Oh, but do you believe?

Red hair, freckled skin, lifeless brown eyes, what did life do to you?

We all come into the world, as crying red babies flailing our fists at life. And I can tell you for certain, that you were perfect then.

I can tell you the pale white scar you have on your wrist from a bike accident, does not mar anything.

Beauty is not defined by the supermodels we see on the fashion covers. Their faces flawlessly sculpted by make-up and camera flashes.

Beauty is not defined by all the “teen” stars we see on Instagram, posting their snap-chat photos.

That is not reality.

That is not the beauty I see in you, and that is not the beauty I see in others.

You don’t do Sephora commercials or have 10,000 thousand followers, but by god you are beautiful.

I can count one hand how many people I have met with red hair and fair skin.

You have a slight smile that never seems to leave your face, even while working.

You have wonderfully white and unique teeth and a freckle on your left earlobe.

Please don’t stare straight forward, your chewed nails tapping the cheap plastic of your keyboard.

Don’t let the sadness and darkness well up in you while waiting for just another customer.

Don’t come to work with thin slashes on your wrists, and an empty look in your eyes.

Please don’t.

Because subway cashier girl, you are art.

And I am sorry for what the world did to make you feel that you are not.

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