Have you seen my scalp fall off in unmistakable flakes?
White chunks falling on my desk during class as I try and hide my own disgust
after I itch my head innocuously and see them sway down like snow—
Except no — it doesn’t snow here, it’s much too climatically challenged.
My skin is an unfakable symbol of the heat, tanned from cream to caramel;
it’s so unmoisturized it cracks like a crumbled cookie— gosh, I’m hungry.
I could smother my sweet treat self with the lotion that sits by my sink, but I am too unmotivated to care for myself, it feels like living in hell; a chore comparable to
scrubbing toilets or shining mirrors so hard I can stare at my face in them.
But wait — I hate my face. I hate my features and my naked, unmakeuped looks.
I hate my stubby eyelashes, as they fail to conceal my creased undereyes,
I hate the indent of my subtle but still visible mouth lines, and I hate, hate, hate,
the way my lips looks when I smile, so I shut both tight in all photos as if my life
depends on my face appearing more appealing but lacking enthusiasm;
an expression that is solemn but still doesn’t mimic the sick state of my mind.
My brain only brings pain, seeking to ruin its host’s life; a parasite that haunts
my skull like a hungry animal that cannot prioritize anything except food—
except I have an abundance of sustenance, so my stomach craves compliments.
I eagerly anticipate comments about my appearance so I can say thanks,
then I collect others’ words and cut and arrange a collage of my worth—
more like a mirage to my mind, because even with the gracious nature
of the pronouncements I receive, I remain ridiculed by my reflection.
I let kind remarks sit on the barrier of my body and don’t allow them
to sink in my skin, or burrow in my brain, and my figure is too flat to let them attatch
to my appendages— Maybe the compliments can cling to my appendix,
because they’re both worthless to me anyways; I believe I am of less worth than
anybody that’s ever graced the windblown, white, brown, or green grass of this world.
Hold on — Have you seen me sneer at the snow on the ground?
Have you heard me mock the moisture of the rain?
Have you felt me hate the hail that pelts down?
No, so then why do I despise every element of myself when I worship
all elements of the powerful, imperial earth I am anchored on;
its scalp flaky, its skin cracked like mine, its surface imperfect,
but it is purely indifferent because it doesn’t exist to serve itself
to be consumed or reproduced on some silver platter or flattered by anyone else.
Does it compare itself to other great planets?
Does it hate its own slow growth of plants?
Does it leer at its legions of people?
Or is it me, a mere morsel of sand on the oceanic expanse of the huge earth,
have meticulous thoughts that wouldn’t be considered by such a
well-rounded, warming, otherworldly world that orbits and spins with no hesitance?
The climate here is heating hotter every day, but I can choose my own weather;
whether I will soften my skin with lotion or crack in uncomfortability.
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