Ugly

He’s not talking about me,

he doesn’t love me.

I am not the beautiful one

and of the beast I haven’t got the magic.

Mine is a deformity

transparent and featureless,

nearly invisible,

it doesn’t offer the surgeon the opportunity,

not even the radiologist can see it.

Every morning I shelve it

carefully where I can’t recall,

sometimes I dress of white

its invalid, heavy body,

and I drag it around

till evening,

my cumbersome suitcase

of liar.

December 30, 2004