If I heard that when I was seven,
I'd cry;
I'd tell myself I'm not;
I'd confide to my mother, and await her words to deny my pain;
but I'm not seven anymore.

If I heard that when I was 12,
I'd be angry;
I'd never talk to you again;
I'd tell you to stop; I'd fantasize about flaying you alive;
but I'm not 12 anymore.

And now I'm 17,
ugly is my favorite word for me,
and when I hear that from a person,
I'd smile, because it totally validates
that the "ghost" that whispers in my head---
the demons that continue to haunt me---
they were right.
I'm ugly.