Alexa Laing-Moore
self image
self image
Could I burn it off?
A multitude of faces surround
And I see glory in every one.
But I’m still curled up on the ground.
On the ground, on the ground.
I’ll rub dirt into my skin
To hide the ugliness.
It won’t hide the horror within.
It’s under my skin, it covers my skin.
Are my eyes so covered?
Or is my mind simply poisoned?
Is the truth merely smothered?
Or is it uncovered, ugly uncovered?