Author: Donovan Cleckley
I entered the salon for only a haircut,
but a customer decided to add to my trip
saying that, just for me, here was a special tip:
"You know, if you stop eating cheeseburgers, fries, and pizza, then you will lose that weight.
It might even help to cut down on the Coca-Cola so you can lose that red, pizza face."
I was in eighth grade.
Nobody said a word.
Nobody defended me.
I got my hair cut and left,
but placed the words upon my head and around my neck
like I was a royal shipwreck.
I took some pills,
but the customer's words were the skin-peeling medication.
For everyone who gazed at me, I seemingly grew more grotesque
while my torn, broken, ripped flesh only sealed my situation.
On a trip to the dentist, it became clear how much my lips had decayed.
Blood was my usual drink, and my skin was far too flayed.
By night, I wished the sun wouldn't rise
to cast light on my chipping sandstone face and reddened green eyes.
My lips cracked and my skin broke.
I was the macabre doll everyone should know.
I removed the loose skin from my lips when it hardened, numbed, and died.
Sometimes it was scarlet, but most times it came in sheets of waxy pale white.
So don't be surprised how today my lips have increased in redness and size.
It isn't a lipstick in the finest, romantic hue
because it symbolizes my recovery from living the color blue.
I love my everlasting rouge.
I lost the acne.
I lost the weight.
Here I am
still without my fill,
but I learned about human taste.
Knowing the men you've liked and loved for their fashion,
you should know about my face and body years before our attraction.
When you shame the people you deem as the "ugly ones,"
as you possess the tendency to do,
remember that once
I was one of those so-called "ugly ones" too.
You can see color, but I don't think you can see me.
These shades and hues don't even scratch your scenery.
I'm more well-painted than you will ever believe,
but I don't really think your eyes will ever be free.
With your mind’s eye closed,
you view appearance
as the measure of passion.
Even as the petals
fall from the rose,
I'm fine in my
fused and fragmented fashion.
Pardon me if I'm initially too strong of a drink,
but I'm sweeter to your senses than you may think.
I wear an armor forged by the hard hands of time.
If it hangs heavily upon me,
then I hope you don't mind.
Instead of flawlessly beautiful,
I am beautifully flawed
because I am myself,
mistakes, scars, and all.