People staring at me.
People staring at me find my hair weird: too hard and frizzy, too dry and nappy, just like a clown wig. They don’t know that my hair shaft is woven as my mood bristles, freezes or interferes with the virtue of my vice, in the distress mistress of my tresses.
People staring at me find my ears distorted: with disproportionate lobes and eardrums that work in slow motion, maybe because they’re saturated with, all the atrocities they hear everyday. They don’t know that my ears have walls, sensitive and aware, that open up or close, as I’m being incensed, consoled or insulted.
People staring at me find my nose too flat: almost shrivelled, with nostrils dilated like bottomless throats. But they don’t know that the humus lining my nasal walls filters the harmful heat of their bourgeois pollution. So me, the more I breathe in, the more my filter savors the electrical liters of ether.
People staring at me find my mouth too big: my lips too thick like bodies we fatten up. With crooked teeth, like a cat’s jaw, and a foreign tongue that would only know how to say: “Screw you b*tch!.” - They don’t know that it is everything but a sewer drain… Sure, it is noisier than Mozart’s piano drunk with melodic rhymes. Sure, it opens up only to talk about misery or dreams, but at the end of the day, it always takes an titanic bite out of life’s flesh.
People staring at me think that my head is a sort of rugby ball: with features sadly inordinate like a hybrid skeleton. But they don’t know that I’ve never known how to comply to the norms: like a metronom a race would’ve fixed. My head is still high, soaring proudly in the wind, and would only stoop to greet the greats with respect.
But am I stupid? Of course!
People staring at me often have really shiny hair (because they’re worth it?), superbly erect ears, a thin nose, plain lips and a color that doesn’t look like mine. They love to mirror themselves in your absurd smiles. They love everything about them, from the hair on their head to the warmth of their lips. They are never ghastly, like the emblem of this anathema they throw in the form of a glance on my face, a little too pale, a little too dark, a little too dirty to deserve their crystal universe.
People staring at me misrepresent me.
But, fortunately, I still have my eyes… my eyes… my eyes…
To cry?
- Imperfectly yours
