I won’t even try turning this into poetry. This is dirt.
At the age of fifteen, I was convinced I was ugly. Hell, maybe I was. Not just ugly as in unappealing, but as in Franken-style societal reject. These words were repeated so many times in so many different ways – from there she stands, ugly as fuck, to c’mon, aim for her cunt – the insults were varied and sometimes rather creative.
This went on for so long, I eventually started believing I was, indeed, the ugliest girl alive. I started to alienate from the world. From teachers to family to strangers on the street, I genuinely thought I saw anyone who as much as laid eyes on me grin at the sight of the distorted teenage-thing. To this day, I still don’t know if this was actually the case, or maybe just a reflection of my state of mind. What I do remember is the shame.
I tried everything. I even started saving up money for a nose job. I covered myself in hoods and caps, not wanting to give the world the pleasure of peeking through the curtain. Nope, no free tickets here. Try the next freak show! I grew my hair as long as I possibly could, letting it cover my face. For years I was certain the only solution for someone with a face like mine was to make sure it stayed hidden, which meant, I’d never,
cut my hair again.
Well, fuck. You.