Sinner

𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐦

homophobic language

To my mother,

I feel ridiculous dedicating these to a woman who left, but I'll feel like the embodiment of clownery if I dedicated these entries to a book or myself. 'Dear Diary' sounds like the introduction to a middle-school girl's rant about her flimsy crush on the cute guy with blonde hair and blue eyes whom she never interacted with. 

So I will continue to dedicate this to a woman who left, and acknowledge how she imprinted onto me in the worst and best ways. Sometimes I wonder what'd be like if she were still here. (I do not like this train of thought. It is never bright. If my mother had stayed, I think I would be dead.) 

I digress, that isn't the reason for an entry as opposed to another line of flimsy poetry written by someone as inadequate as me. 

Pythagoras Theorem. 

Beauty is symmetrical. I've been picking at my scars contemplating such a statement. The idea that beauty is measurable and that it can be empirically tested, that there is a degree of measure. If we argue that beauty is measurable, do we not insinuate that ugliness is too? 

It's preposterous. 

No, it's downright fucking wrong. 

If beauty is symmetry then the world was one ugly bastard. Is uniqueness no longer celebrated? (Laugh at yourself, Travis. You know it isn't. Look at your scars. Faggot.) These are the thoughts I hold close to my heart, so I write them out and later on break my knuckles as punishment for this sin. But to me, right now, he is beauty. 

He is the embodiment of what I find beautiful, and there is no part of him that is symmetrical. 

A prosthetic with cracks lining its side, a chunk coloured pink not grey like two broken pieces have been glued together. Pigtails that sat on his head, one always higher than the other. Outfits that coordinated in spite (or is it because?) of its lack of cohesiveness. (I often wonder what his face looks like underneath the prosthetic. Surely too, something unique. Something startling.)

Pythagoras Theorem. 

A mathematical solution meant to define beauty. But beauty, to me, is him. I reject all other definitions for a moment and think of him. 

I wonder if beauty is symmetrical; if I am simply blind? A sinner cannot see the path of God. Does that mean I cannot see what is truly beautiful? (Faggot.)

To my mother, could you see beauty too? Would you think he was beautiful? 

Again, I wonder. (Does he think I am beautiful?)

If I tell him what I think, will he agree? Or does he, too, think beauty lies in symmetry? That, to be beautiful, is to fit a theory, a series of equations written up by a madman?

I sign off with this in mind. Perhaps I'll write another excerpt. Another letter that I will not tear in half and throw away, detailing his beauty. (Will I run away from it all? Faggot.)

To write again.