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So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us, that we'd be lonely forever,
所以我们长大后觉得没有人会爱上我们，我们注定孤独一辈子，
that we'd never meet someone to make us feel like the sun
而我们遇到的那些把我们当作太阳的人，
was something they built for us in their toolshed.
不过是把我们当作是一种备选的工具。
So broken heartstrings bled the blues, and we tried to empty ourselves so we'd feel nothing.
我们破碎的心里流淌着忧伤，想要麻木自己感不到疼痛。
Don't tell me that hurt less than a broken bone,
不要跟我说内心的伤痛比不上骨折的痛苦，
that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away,
不要跟我说内在的痛苦可以通过外科手术切掉，
that there's no way for it to metastasize; it does.
不要跟我说没有办法转移；它可以。
She was eight years old, our first day of grade three when she got called ugly.
我认识一个女孩，9岁，升到三年级的第一天便有人唤她丑。
We both got moved to the back of class so we would stop getting bombarded by spitballs.
我俩都搬到了教室后排，这样就不会老是被人丢纸团了。
But the school halls were a battleground. We found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day.
但是学校的走廊还是跟战场一样。我们寡不敌众，每天都被人欺负。
We used to stay inside for recess, because outside was worse.
我们常常躲在学校，因为外面的环境更糟。
Outside, we'd have to rehearse running away,
在外面，我们需要时刻准备做着逃跑的准备，
or learn to stay still like statues, giving no clues that we were there.
或者像雕塑一样一动不动，不让人注意到。
In grade five, they taped a sign to the front of her desk that read, "Beware of dog."
五年级的时候，他们在她的课桌前贴了一张纸，上面写着，“注意，狗出没。”
To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn't think she's beautiful
时至今日，她都无法发现自己的美，即使她有深爱她的丈夫
because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half her face.
因为她的脸上有一块小小的胎记。
Kids used to say, "She looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase, but couldn't quite get the job done."
小伙伴们总说，“她的脸就像是写了错误答案的纸，被人用橡皮擦来擦去，却总是擦不干净。”
And they'll never understand that she's raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word "Mom,"
他们永远的无法理解，她抚养的两个孩子将身为母亲的她视为美的化身。
because they see her heart before they see her skin, because she's only ever always been amazing.
因为她的孩子先看到了她的内心，然后才是她的皮肤，只有她的内心一直保持着如此的迷人。
