I am
the miscalculation
in a long line
of carefully measured miracles;
a defective constellation
stumbling
through orbits
of misplaced purpose.
Every compliment
spills
like venomous nectar
through dishonest smiles,
and each whispered
"You're lovely"
echoes
with merciless laughter.
My ugliness is exquisite,
a razor
slicing masks
from familiar faces,
exposing
the raw nerve endings
of their polite lies.
They say
beauty is subjective—
but revulsion,
oh, revulsion
is deliciously universal.
My shadow disappoints
the dead,
my presence disturbs
the living.
What cruel comedy
of chromosomes
crafted me
as the cracked vessel
of ancestral shame?
I wear failure
as jewelry,
broken glass
sparkling
on skin
scarred with rejection;
a masterpiece
only in grotesque abstraction.
The world whispers
that I am undeserving
of causing
such chaos,
yet here I am—
the ugly truth
they fear
to claim.
And every time
someone dares
to hold my hand,
the room grows quiet
with disbelief:
What madness is this?
What beautiful horror
do they see
in me?
