The Beautiful People bear no scars.
The Beautiful People no not whom they are.
Their bellybuttons serve not as a symbol of origin
but as symmetrically-arranged decorative accessories.
Everything for them is to paint, everything is to glow.
Nothing, by their reckoning, is gained by pain,
and loss should never show.
I knew a BP once
but she got lost in my mind
as soon as I heard the chimes
of the ice cream truck coming down the street.
And there was another BP once
who claimed to know me:
she called me ‘meat’.
But that’s all right. That’s ok:
I was an alien loin of Martian beef
and she was Morgana le Fay.
I once heard a cry, I swear I did:
“You bled with Wallace, now bleed with me.”
Yes, I bleed. But until bled out
will flash my scars,
as unBeautiful as I may be,
with wondrous, unique ferocity.
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