That gauzy veil you tra-la-la behind;
it makes you look ugly. It brings out the enormity of your nose. It
accentuates the pockmarks on your face. Makes the grey in your hair
look like it was sewn from all the ageing maggots of the world. Most
of all, it makes your insecurity stand out in high relief- even a
starved Somalian kid’s ribs seem inconspicuous in comparison.
For the very fabric of that gauzy veil
was steeped in a deep vat of pretense.
And then brushed with grimy dots of
cheap glitter before you wore it upon your being, so excitedly.
You smile so widely for me- but all I
can see is your big nose. You tilt your head in impossible angles and
act coy- but all I can see is the disgusting disproportion of your
nostrils. You wear all those tight clothes- yet, I can only see your
face fading in the horizon, so pathetically behind your nose.
You say black is back. But you still
drape that smelly shroud of deceit upon your adipose-infected self,
to cover up your darkness. Do you not think black is a desirous
colour? Why do you have a wardrobe full of miniscule black dresses?
If such is the shade of your heart and mind, why won’t you showcase
it? Barbie and Ken look happy in pink- but don’t you see? Ken is
gay and there have been no summer rains in Barbie’s dry, cold
world. Pink is not the colour of the season. No one cucking fares.
The human soul is black. Every single
soul. But even black has different shades. Who is to say black can’t
be pure? Why do you assume it isn’t the exact shade of innocence?
Have you proof that it doesn’t incite passion?
There is the black of the night. The
black of being consumed. The black of pleasure in pain. The black of
current, and that of currant. Of Sabbaths and Bettys. Birds and
Velvet.
Your black is just as unique perhaps.
Just perhaps. But you choose to camouflage it and bite from behind,
catching people unawares. But don’t give yourself credit. You
aren’t rabid, not that powerful, no. You don’t kill. You just
bite, and people exclude you from the radius of their existence after
that.
Dear, Cellulite Bottomed Girl. Instead,
why don’t you occupy yourself with thoughts of velvety cakes and
Jim Morrison in tight blue velvet? Of days in Oktober Munich and
flowers drifting in the nippy October air? Of Mary Hopkins’ voice
and the voice of your heart’s reason? And if you absolutely insist
on being just like me, why don’t you just shuck the fut up and
observe from a corner?
Why won’t you be real?
Or if ‘real’ is an alien concept in your ammonium-sulphate filled world, here’s
a better idea. Get out of my face.
No love and looking forward to the
cessation of your existence,
Me
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