Truth Lays Heavy In the Palm

In your eyes, perhaps, I am ugly.

Your silence betrays you. For silence

always speaks louder than words, my dear.

But how do I know? your eyes implore mine.

Ah, but that is how I know. Your eyes have

betrayed you, shying away from my face to my shoes,

always my shoes. You are afraid to look at me,

afraid that the revulsion will show itself upon your face.

The mask you have created is only so strong

and cannot bear up in face of my ugliness.

But do not feel guilty. I have been far from

such ignorance and naivety for years now. I can see

your eyes already search for mine, the appeal in them

as visible as if you were made of glass.

You beg for forgiveness. Don't. There is nothing to forgive.

The truth may wound, but no matter what, it glimmers, silver

and heavy in the palm, so solid and real, so very undeniably

true. In fact, though you may doubt, it is comforting,

this knowledge of truth. It is the one constant in this world,

my ugliness, hard-packed earth beneath me for when God

decides to shake the branches of my tree—and I fall.

Do not pity me for my ugliness. Accept me,

love me, if you can. But whatever you do,

please do not pity me.