A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

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An ugly thing.

She refused to show the world who she was –

Insisting on only seeing it through her shield of locks – dirty and unrevealing.

She thought she was misunderstood

And better then their whispers

As well as the whisperers themselves.

Because she hid her eyes and her soul from the world,

Behind those greasy curtains of hers,

She couldn’t see

That these visions of bitterness and betterness

Were only illusions after all,

And that the whispers

Were – through her intentional blindness – her one and only production

Directed by hers truly.

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