you speak of your imperfections
like you're some kind of freak
disfigured and unlovable
(but only for the week)
and when you talk, i cannot help
but place a hand behind
on that ugly thing attached to me
that's keeping me alive
i can't stop my mind from wandering
to my skin, so scarred and red
can't stop my eyes from watering
from the vision in my head
i see myself, my horrid pump
and scars from tubes ripped free
and it hurts to know your standards
because it means that you'd agree
i try my best to hide it
to pretend that i am fine
but when i take my clothes off
i wish they'd close their eyes.
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