Not fitting the mold
is this truly ugly?
I think to myself,
as I graze my stomach in the dark,
its soft skin melting away in my hands,
like creamy wisps of a cloud.
is this truly ugly?
I wonder,
tracing the faint marks on my face
left behind by years of acne.
if I concentrate hard enough,
they look like constellations.
is this truly ugly?
I muse,
as my fingers pause on the tiny hair of my legs,
fluttering lightly at my touch,
with all the delicacy
of wind ruffled leaves.
this,
I say to myself, aloud,
this
is truly ugly,
(I have never been so sure)
when my eyes find themselves
lost in their own reflection.