poem by Anonymous

Being born ugly isn’t always bad.
Being born ugly can save you from being bought and sold like furniture.
But later you grow pretty.
All doll-like with those delicate eyelashes and silky smooth hair.
Looking so fragile that you might just break with a single snap of the fingers.
You try to look pretty to cover up your ugly past.
Still,
no matter how hard you try, you grow older.
Looking all ugly again.
Your face like a raisin all shriveled up and wrinkly.
You get thrown aside like a worn down chair full of rips,
showing the rusty metal springs and the moldy yellow inner flesh.
You get thrown away,
no longer needed.

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