i cling to my cripple

i cling to my cripple.
i sob and I cling to my scars, because what if I can't pull off beauty?
what if I had beauty thrust upon me
and it still looked misshapen
awkward
ill-fitting; somehow?
and then I am neither myself
nor one of the beautiful creatures.
then I am just confusion.
chinese instructions.
vision blur.
then I am nothing.
call it paranoia,
but I hold on tight to my ugly.
i lather myself with insecurities,
i grip onto denial like rosary beads,
i drink from the goblet of self-loathing;
just so I exist.