The Ugly inside
likes to believe she is me sometimes
but remembers those days
when Pretty pushed Ugly
way down
Then the boys drive by,
some of them forty, or older,
when I’m jogging in hot August sun–
And I grow my three heads and my one middle finger
Because it’s better to just be the Ugly sometimes.
When the girls come out
and take all the conversation
to their waistline, their bust size, their clothes,
I am too weird to care
or too bored to tears
for my Ugly inside was my comfort for years
showing me worlds that Pretty
never could find.
And I loved my Ugly
even though it’s culturally right and acceptable,
to be meat on the table,
a salted Aphrodite spread and ready as pie.
God forbid she be too thick
too thin or too quick
as long as she buries
her Ugly inside.
I say raise her up, let Ugly come out
believe she is you for a day
Remember the way
your Ugly made you sane
when Pretty pushed you away
Remember the worlds
you were forced to see early,
the way Pretty tarnished what she loved–
only Ugly would stop,
let other Uglies in,
and grow Beauty in the place
that Pretty forgot.
