Autumn.

With hands bearing no harm.

She bears guests.

conversations.

Of stars.

Eyes of blue,

hair near white.

What God has given her,

was with held from I.

Posters.

People.

Newspapers.

Is it only I?

I that is curious?

I that must know why?

Longing to dissect.

to find her secret.

Clean.

no... more.

Absence of dirt.

That angers most.

The true horror of my childhood years,

hid not in my dismembered beauties,

eyes blue.

hair gold.

But in the transference from cold porcelain,

to skin.

flesh.

bone.

Little white girls.

to discover the secret,

Why they heard the Awwww...

Graced with hands only gentle,

The magic they possess.

Just to think...

Why not I?

Victim.

Master.

Ugly people,

that is what you are.

Different eyes.

perhaps.

Is all to want.

It is not to possess,

not a property that is.

This ugliness spoken of.

Yet,

the absence of dirt,

feeds the power to decide.

Ugliness put in hands.

Thrown as a mantel over them.

walk about the world.

No question.

Beauty is not who I am.