I am ugly.
I am a canvas
invaded by graffiti of others.
It is marked by merciless
judgment across my hips
and smeared with sneers
of disgust around my thighs.
My arms are dotted with distrust
from the haste of wearing my
heart on my sleeve.
My feet ache from wandering
down those unforgiving paths,
where the only light I found
came from the
inferno I ignited with
words to ward off those
offering help.
Trained to carry more than
it can handle,
my spine strains to stand straight.
It cries in pain, but it would
never let this facade fall.
No one can know.
They can't see the cracks
covering my chest,
where doubt drips down
and anxiety takes root in a heart predisposed to panic.
A smile,
my weapon of choice,
begins to paint sloppy layers
over the fading mess.
I am drenched in these
oils that suffocate my skin,
clogging pores and
stealing oxygen.
I long to be scrubbed free,
to chip away the peeling
hurt and
begin again.
Out of nowhere,
a hand reaches for mine.
Fingers fly fluidly,
brushing away the stained attempts
of unsuccessful masking.
My skin tingles,
revived and
rubbed raw.
When I raise my
unbelieving eyes to meet theirs,
I see myself for the first time
reflected in those two perfect mirrors.
I am beautiful.
