I just...can't
I can't look at myself.
I refuse to remove my clothes, for fear or what lies beneath.
The wretched surface
and what lies beneath that is even worse.
The person.
Could I even call it a person?
The mutant hiding from the light
hands over her face.
A blob.
Don't look at me!
I don't want you to see...
to see what is me.
In moments of passion and lust
I won't even take off my shirt.
She probably thinks I'm crazy...that I didn't want her.
I did.
But if she saw...if she saw she would never want e.
A smile can fool
but my nakedness will blind and burn and kill.
You don't want to see me.
I can't even see me.
I cried when I passed the oven door.
The distorted image of myself in its reflection
may not be so distorted after all.
The shadow that I cast on the sidewalk is too big.
It looms.
I want to stab it.
Or to wash it away
to spit at it
and tell it "Go to HELL!"
and never see it again.
My mother's more worried about the freshman fifteen than I am.
Be careful she says.
That's right, be careful.
She can't look at me now...just imagine.
I can imagine.
And this keyboard is going to sizzle and break from my tears.
But I can't stop them.
I spend too much time in my room.
I won't tell you how I'm feeling, lest you reject me.
Rejection is everything.
The only things that care are a stuffed bunny and a bear.
They can hear
and they don't care that my eyes and my nose leak
and that everything inside me is broken.
They're not like her.
That one.
The other.
They don't want to tattoo on their faces.
They don't want to stay blond forever
and they don't care whether I make them lots of money.
People could learn a lot about love from inanimate objects.
CLICK.
Photos.
Goddess, I could kill myself.
I used to gag at the site of them.
I once actually got sick.
My face made me sick.
My body.
Everything.
Reeking of despair
and a rotting mind.
I could have been a perfectly good person
but I turned the wrong way
and am now everything you wished that you weren't.
I refuse to remove my clothes, for fear or what lies beneath.
The wretched surface
and what lies beneath that is even worse.
The person.
Could I even call it a person?
The mutant hiding from the light
hands over her face.
A blob.
Don't look at me!
I don't want you to see...
to see what is me.
In moments of passion and lust
I won't even take off my shirt.
She probably thinks I'm crazy...that I didn't want her.
I did.
But if she saw...if she saw she would never want e.
A smile can fool
but my nakedness will blind and burn and kill.
You don't want to see me.
I can't even see me.
I cried when I passed the oven door.
The distorted image of myself in its reflection
may not be so distorted after all.
The shadow that I cast on the sidewalk is too big.
It looms.
I want to stab it.
Or to wash it away
to spit at it
and tell it "Go to HELL!"
and never see it again.
My mother's more worried about the freshman fifteen than I am.
Be careful she says.
That's right, be careful.
She can't look at me now...just imagine.
I can imagine.
And this keyboard is going to sizzle and break from my tears.
But I can't stop them.
I spend too much time in my room.
I won't tell you how I'm feeling, lest you reject me.
Rejection is everything.
The only things that care are a stuffed bunny and a bear.
They can hear
and they don't care that my eyes and my nose leak
and that everything inside me is broken.
They're not like her.
That one.
The other.
They don't want to tattoo on their faces.
They don't want to stay blond forever
and they don't care whether I make them lots of money.
People could learn a lot about love from inanimate objects.
CLICK.
Photos.
Goddess, I could kill myself.
I used to gag at the site of them.
I once actually got sick.
My face made me sick.
My body.
Everything.
Reeking of despair
and a rotting mind.
I could have been a perfectly good person
but I turned the wrong way
and am now everything you wished that you weren't.