UFB

Your eyes sharpen at the glance of that cocoa sheet prickled with hairs standing no taller than one another.

A look of disgust and discomfort scan the depths of a 60 year old soul, bouncing from the stem to the petals, to the heart.

The roots of this plant lay on a bed of chocolate scalp. Twisted, locked, matted, burnt.

Your eyes scroll to the mixed pout of brown and pink.

Soft to the touch of moisture, rough to the whip of wind.

Those eyes then circle to almond eyes as dark as the wood of an oak tree.

These weak eyes look down in blankets of insecurity. Blind.

Blind to their own beauty. Blind to their potential.

But not blind to the fact that they will never be seen as beautiful by a naked eye scanning the very crease of their imperfections.

So they sit. They sit in beds of oily skin, tired from the nights of staying up just to seem; smarter, friendlier, or normal.

Your eyes scroll to the un-plucked sleeves of hair planted upon a dotted forehead.

Further your eyes bounce off of rounded curves.

Filled with packets of pink gum, contrasting with the coating of black flesh.

If your eyes could make it to the stalk of the stem, you see a broad figure.

Slumped shoulders from fetal positioned work days.

Thickened thighs coping with discomfort through food.

Short torso, suffocated by overlapping breast; tender and sensitive.

Dragging arms. Fractured hands.

Widened feet. Blubber knees.

And when you can't bring yourself to look anymore, you see rows of candy stained teeth.

The twisting of oversized lips.

The sniffle of a button nose.

You try hard not to wonder, but you can't help it.

The only comfort comes in knowing this particular brown palette

is lighter than that of the frightening street crawlers or destitute track riders.