i would tell you my story, but i do not think you want to hear it
i would sing you my song, but i doubt you will let me finish it
i held up a mirror to my face, this morning
to see what it is that you see
and i laughed
at the sick joke God tells with me
a pretty face to cover an ugly soul
a canvas of tears and bruises
painted over with brush strokes of
green and yellow and pink
flowers and sky
i'm not sure if it is to trick you
or to comfort me
but it is a lie
and i wonder if i tear away at it
if i will find me
and if those who gave me tears and bruises
were only trying to help
bring forth reality
and you with your soft kisses
and pretty words as you brush back my hair
are only perpetuating a corrupt ridicule
at my expense.
