Not Of Face, Oh Dear

By N Veyra

Oh, how ugly I feel,

Yet denial greets me from every tongue

Not of face, they say,

“Pretty you are,” they hum,

Blind to the rot I sense beneath my skin.

They cannot see

Ugliness doesn’t rest on the face,

It seeps through the soul,

It whispers in the cracks of a weary mind,

It lingers in the echo of things I’ve done.

How used I have been,

How touched I have been,

How many hearts I’ve bruised,

How many smiles I’ve failed to return.

They call it purity

As if goodness could grow

From soil watered with regret.

They call it imperfection

And tell me imperfection makes us human,

Makes us beautiful.

Then why do I feel

So unbearably ugly?

So ugly I bathe till my skin burns,

Scrub till my soul stings,

Wishing I could wash myself clean

Of every memory, every mark, every sin.

And still they say

“Not of face, oh dear,”

As if beauty could hide

The ugliness I carry within.

By N Veyra