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in an escapade of lies we are told what it is we want.
perfect teeth. untangled hair. to be beautiful.
no. i like my crooked, chipped unamerican teeth. behind my
full but uneven lips. my hair still isn't sure whether its
curly or straight. and it tangles only when its blonde. in a
suspended state of illusion i might consider myself pretty. in
all other states of confusion i know the reality of the
it doesn't bother me when i don't think about it.
i can spin webs around words and words around people faster
than they can think them.
themselves alone in their beauty i
despise only because they don't know me. i'd say i lean toward
pessimism on sundays but i'm careful throughout most of the
week. i can walk past a mirror and not look at myself. but you
would too if you had my face :) the mirrors stare stright
back at me. damn mirrors, they have nothing to hide except
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