the deluded ones [#2]

the

may 26th, 2017

with a quiet heart and submissive mind at hand, i listen and try not to speak unless necessary as my mother chastises me or makes little comments. when the distance grows, my eyes begin to fill, and i tell myself to not do this again, to not be so sensitive like they say.

but i can't help it. it's hard to breathe when you're crying over the way you look. how superficial of me, but i can't handle phrases on the ugliness that is so visible to those around me.

when you brush your hands against a rock, it is coarse, rough like my skin at my own touch. when you let water glide through the gaps of your fingers, it is cool, a little chilly like the tears that cascade from my eyes.

the night is late, but my eyes no longer tire when my mind is asking why and why, countless of times.

and i know that every kind phrase on how i look, from the sight of my eyes to my small smiles, is but a lie because there is no beauty in me, is there? true outer beauty comes from inner beauty, and it is clear now that i have neither.

i burn into ashes and forge no diamonds. i cannot create beauty, nor am i beautiful. i suffocate myself in my own creation; i cannot breathe. i cry because i'm so easily burned, and i'm so tired of the same hope that never seems to be real.

i am not beautiful, and i never will be. beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but there is none within me.