When I get “pretty”
it’s like lipstick on a pig—
perfume on a ferret—
grandma in a wig.
But you are always stunning
even when you weep—
when we are at our ugliest
you just look so sweet.
And, yet, I’m the one with personality.
You are so like the purple coneflowers in my mother’s garden—
once you plant your roots in the soil, sprouting from seed,
you begin to grow, and then, you spread
roots entwining, creeping out wide and spacious,
and you take over the soil,
choking out rival flowers and
sucking all the nutrients from the ground,
until only you exist in the garden anymore.
So you are, in my heart.
You, are infuriating.
You make me clench my fists so hard
My fingernails bite into my palms like
Angry children eating
Sandwiches packed, for lunch,
When they really wanted pudding.
And I hate you
With hate
Bubbling in my stomach until I foam at the mouth.
You aren’t any good for me.
Its hard to be confident when you know you’re ugly
It disgusts me in the
deepest, farthest corners of
my being (the ones even I
can’t reach)
that I was created in your image.
And, here I stand,
jaw, square like yours
standing at just your height on
your bare feet with
your insincere smile and narrow eyes.
Facing you,
my own image,
whom I hate.
Why do I have to be
the reflection of such
a monster?
