Cerulean

Cacophobia

You might find me
shallow,
vain,
as my face almost touches the mirror.

Cosmetics sprawling out like dead during the plague,
me trying to find the cure.

I have a black burn wound on my cheek and chin,
Bug bites on my jaw.
I am everything I detest and more.

My poetry speaks of death,
life,
emotion,
religion --
The most beautiful things on earth.

I've been obsessed with beauty from a young age,
grasping to --
clinging to --
being "the pretty one".

My body feels as though it's melting everytime I walk,
I want to hide so far from everything in the nooks and crannies in my mind --
that even if I were to witness someone being beaten to death,
the blood would be enticing to wear.

I scream out to the dead,
craving to join them all.

My bitten nails digging in the dirt.
Nothing I could do could ever make me beautiful again.

Am I less worthy if I'm hideous to gaze upon if heaven's own eyes turn away from its stomach-turning,
stomach-churning,
vomit?

Should I lay upon the floor for it to swallow me,
that I may gratefully choke,
hung by the roots of flowers for the crime of being a nauseating sight?

That as the light of heaven becomes brighter,
that I may finally become beautiful?