Ugly started the moment air filled lungs

Making breath

That finally became wails

Hollering heavy and hollow

Into an already upside down world

Something completely ugly made us

Unless beautiful is unto perfect

And perfect is unto unique

And unique

Is the pattern of pock marks

A bitter snowflake reminder

Of the days my blemished face has bled enough

A broken pattern of scars

From the cancer

And first suicide attempts

And tattoos

That remind us

Whatever is left behind

And is still standing

Is permanent

Including me

Beauty is unto statues crumbling

Still standing

Despite times blunt chisel tip

Let’s be broken down to perfection

Because there’s all this beauty inside

Inside awkward snowflake patterns

Of nervous breath

Making my voice break

During the days when I need to be the most confident

Like when I finally tell you

I love you

And mean it

This messed up mound of flesh

Was given life for a reason

Even if it is just to love

Whoever is around to be loved

I can do that

Despite the hand tremors

And broken toothed smiles

And bitter snowflake reminders

Of ****** up fingerprints

Smudging everything

I touch

I can do that

Because this

This is as beautiful as any of us are going to get

And I am cool with that

Each day the wood-chipped path
would creep in through lace holes
and scrawl its earthen signature
upon her socks.

Collared wind blew
the secrets of the leaves through a tangle
of whistling hair

The labelled trees, landmarks to tourists
on the nottinghamshire tree-trail
reached to her
when she froze on the bench
to miss the dining hall.

birds of paradise
chirping in a minor lament
of their chicken-wire palace
understood,
only.

when they drained the lake to search
for a body,
and the parched park cried leaf-crisps
in red and orange, they were warned
from walking alone
and the grass stretches ached for
musing students to sprawl
chatter on its back.

then, as seasons cast a veil
on the rumours and caution,
she was
taller, and handed
to a boy.
they deciphered
the war memorial's
foreign symbols
for something to talk about.

The arboretum watched her grow:
each day the wood-chipped path
would creep in through lace holes
and scrawl its earthen signature
upon her socks.
When she could walk on her own
the rustling blows tugged
the secrets of the leaves through the hair
she refused to fasten;
so it danced, rebelliously
on her shouldered landscape.
The labelled trees, landmarks to tourists
on the nottinghamshire tree-trail
linked outstretched arms in solidarity
around her when she froze on the bench
to skip the dining hall.
And the birds of paradise
who chirped in minor a lament
of their chicken-wire palace,
understood, when no one else could.

When they drained the lake to search
for a body,
and the parched park cried leaf-crisps
in red and orange, they were warned
from walking alone
and the grass stretches ached for
musing students to sprawl
chatter on its back.

When the time-dust sprinkled a veil
on the rumours and caution,
She appeared
taller, and hand in hand
with a boy.
They tried to decipher
the war memorial and it's message
in foreign symbols
for something to talk about.

The Arboretum has not seen her for
years,
but its crafted script
Is carved like wax in
her mind's journal.