I’m picking at my fingers,
shredding my cuticles
and biting my nails
so they cannot possibly
scratch this itch
which only feeds my self-loathing.
I am ugly.
(Scratch. Scratch.)
These chapped lips of mine
are pressed against your ear
whispering tangled lullabies
that you’ll probably mistake for truths.
The lyrics are contradicting
and I’m biting my now bleeding lip
because I can’t remember
which truth I lied about.
I am kind of ugly.
( . Scratch.)
My breath is sweet with
chamomile and the chocolate
mint you placed upon my tongue.
You inhale the scent while
the musicality of my flaws
(a melody of madness)
are so tastefully relinquished
from my raw lips.
I’m not ugly, just flawed.
( . .)
