I wasn't always black... there was this freckle, and it got bigger and bigger.
When I look in the mirror and the only one there is me Every freckle on my face is where it’s suppose to be And I know my creator didn’t make no mistakes on me My feet, my thighs, my Lips, my eyes, I’m loving what I see
I had so many freckles that my mother used to say that they were kisses from the angels. I still have them.
Four be the things I'd have been better without: love, curiosity, freckles and doubt.
You were created as a masterpiece and you are one of God's expressions of beauty. Short, tall, thin, thick, freckles, big eyes, small ones . . . it doesn't matter.
The sun has blessed you," Sarita used to say. "Look how he has left his kisses on your face for all to see and be jealous." "The sun loves you more," I said, rubbing my hands over her dry arms, the color of an aged wine gourd, and she laughed. But this is not India and we are not prized for our freckles here. The sun is not allowed to show his love.
Her freckles were orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.
And there I was, pretty as heck, brown eyes, a few freckles, fashion challenged, and a bad attitude. Max II.
If you're asking whether I intentionally mess up my hair, no, I don't. And certain things, like my freckles, they're just there. I don't do anything consciously. I suppose I could get contact lenses. I suppose I could comb my hair more often.
People don't associate red hair, pale skin, and freckles with beauty.
I thought of Paris as a beauty spot on the face of the earth, and of London as a big freckle.
I like to talk. I'm a terrible dancer. I love my hometown. I have freckles and oversized ears. I'm a geeks. I have tried not to hide who I am or what matters to me.
He moved toward her and cupped her face in his hands. "You are so beautiful that sometimes it hurts just to look at you. Your eyes are a thousand shades of brown and gold with hints of blue and green." He touched her cheekbones with thumbs. "Your freckles are like the girl-next-door fantasy brought to life. Your mouth is sexy and soft and when you smile, the world seems like a better place. Swear you'll never change anything. Swear it.
I like subversive humor, freckles, women's knees and long hair, the laughter of playing children, and a girl running down the street.
There are some weaknesses that are peculiar and distinctive to generous characters, as freckles are to a fair skin.
You don't need to change one hair. One freckle. One little toe. And if its me thats made you feel you should do this..then there's something wrong with me. -Luke Brandon
I don't see myself as beautiful. I was a kid who was freckle-faced, and they used to call me 'hay head.'
My face hasn't matured as I've grown up, and neither has my sense of humour. In the mirror, I see an older version of myself as a child, although I do have more wrinkles and freckles.
If envy is red and doubt is black then happiness is brown. I looked from the little brown stone to the tiny brown freckle to her huge brown eyes.
Four be the things I am wiser to know: Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe. Four be the things I'd been better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt. Three be the things I shall never attain: Envy, content, and sufficient champagne. Three be the things I shall have till I die: Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.
Some of the freckles I once loved are now closer to liver spots. But it’s still the eyes we look at, isn’t it? That’s where we found the other person, and find them still.
... I'm the fortieth-ugliest man in this bar. But so what! So what! What if someday she lets me kiss each one of her freckles again? She has like a million. But every one of them means something to me. Isn't this how people used to fall in love? I know we're living in Rubenstein's America, like you keep saying. But doesn't that just make us even more responsible for each other's fates? I mean, what if Eunice and I just said no to all this. To this bar. To this FACing. The two of us. What if we just went home and read books to each other?
If I have one thing perfect, it's my eyebrows. And my feet. I love my feet. They're like Japanese feet. The rest I would like to hide. Especially my freckles. I feel ridiculous.
It is so strange, to encounter an ex. It's as if you're in a foreign film, and what you're saying face-to-face has nothing to do with the subtitles flowing beneath you. We are so careful not to touch, although once upon a time, I slept plastered to him in our bed, like lichen on a rock. We are two strangers who knows every shameful secret, every hidden freckle, every fatal flaw in each other.
But the body fails us and the mirror knows, and we no longer insist that the gray hush be carried off its surface by the cloth, for we have run to fat, and wrinkles encircle the eyes and notch the neck where the skin wattles, and the flesh of the arms hangs loose like an overlarge sleeve, veins thicken like ropes and empurple the body as though they had been drawn there by a pen, freckles darken, liver spots appear, the hairah, the hair is exhausted and gray and lusterless, in weary rolls like cornered lint.
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