So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us, that we'd be lonely forever,
所以我們長大后覺得沒有人會愛上我們,我們注定孤獨一輩子,
that we'd never meet someone to make us feel like the sun
而我們遇到的那些把我們當作太陽的人,
was something they built for us in their toolshed.
不過是把我們當作是一種備選的工具。
So broken heartstrings bled the blues, and we tried to empty ourselves so we'd feel nothing.
我們破碎的心里流淌著憂傷,想要麻木自己感不到疼痛。
Don't tell me that hurt less than a broken bone,
不要跟我說內心的傷痛比不上骨折的痛苦,
that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away,
不要跟我說內在的痛苦可以通過外科手術切掉,
that there's no way for it to metastasize; it does.
不要跟我說沒有辦法轉移;它可以。
She was eight years old, our first day of grade three when she got called ugly.
我認識一個女孩,9歲,升到三年級的第一天便有人喚她丑。
We both got moved to the back of class so we would stop getting bombarded by spitballs.
我倆都搬到了教室后排,這樣就不會老是被人丟紙團了。
But the school halls were a battleground. We found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day.
但是學校的走廊還是跟戰場一樣。我們寡不敵眾,每天都被人欺負。
We used to stay inside for recess, because outside was worse.
我們常常躲在學校,因為外面的環境更糟。
Outside, we'd have to rehearse running away,
在外面,我們需要時刻準備做著逃跑的準備,
or learn to stay still like statues, giving no clues that we were there.
或者像雕塑一樣一動不動,不讓人注意到。
In grade five, they taped a sign to the front of her desk that read, "Beware of dog."
五年級的時候,他們在她的課桌前貼了一張紙,上面寫著,“注意,狗出沒。”
To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn't think she's beautiful
時至今日,她都無法發現自己的美,即使她有深愛她的丈夫
because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half her face.
因為她的臉上有一塊小小的胎記。
Kids used to say, "She looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase, but couldn't quite get the job done."
小伙伴們總說,“她的臉就像是寫了錯誤答案的紙,被人用橡皮擦來擦去,卻總是擦不干凈。”
And they'll never understand that she's raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word "Mom,"
他們永遠的無法理解,她撫養的兩個孩子將身為母親的她視為美的化身。
because they see her heart before they see her skin, because she's only ever always been amazing.
因為她的孩子先看到了她的內心,然后才是她的皮膚,只有她的內心一直保持著如此的迷人。