Not good enough.
Never good enough.
Why would anybody like something
As grotesque as me?
When there are people of great beauty
Both inside and out
Always better than me.
Always happier than me.
Always taller, thinner, hotter, nicer, funnier
Than the sack of rotten potatoes that is me.
Always better at everything.
Though that is no mean feat to say the least.
Who could like me?
Unsavoury in the extreme.
A gargoyle poised over the gates of sadness
Unable to move.
Unable to leave.
Unable to grow.
Always there rain or shine.
Disintegrating hope by hope
From the acidic droplets of the grey clouds
And decades in the harsh climate
Of my turbulent and unyielding self-hate.
Cloaked in despair
and tear stained sheets.