by Nick Gisburne
Whatever brute or beast you hope to see,
Whatever strange delusions twist your dreams,
Behind this curtain I am simply me.
Monstrosity is rarely what it seems.
For those who look, but never let me speak,
Revulsion and contempt are nothing new.
My skin will turn the stomachs of the weak,
But do I sound so primitive to you?
Mere words, alas, will not prepare your mind
For what the gods themselves have cast aside,
But why are you so adamant to find
A man compelled to hate himself and hide?
A shilling is a wretched price to pay,
So spare us both, I beg you. Walk away.
