Ugly

I don’t know what ugly is

I’ve seen it

On its own

I’ve seen people who were

Sick and dying

I’ve seen dead people

Dead people are sometimes ugly

Like dead plants

But even in that ugliness

There is something beautiful

A hue

A potency

I don’t know what ugly is

I think ugly might be

A category, not a

Descriptor

Kind of like calling something a

Weed

A weed is just a plant you don’t want

An ugly person is just someone you don’t want

It doesn’t really have

A description, it can’t be

Identified

Ugliness is in the eye of the

Accuser

I try not to

Accuse people of things

Unless they have

Committed sin against me

Then, yes

Like death and like

A rose in your potatoes–

That weed has got to go.

People are

Breathtakingly beautiful, to me

When I am in the airport

I feel as if I am at a

Living Louvre

And all of life is beauty

Until, of course

Someone glares at me

Or tells me to make my body

Smaller somehow

Or tells me that I

Don’t deserve life

The same as everyone else

Then, the ugliness

Of my surroundings

Bleeds through my fantasy

I am not an ugly person

I do not see ugliness

Until it shows itself to me


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