A poem by Isabelle Sorrells
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.