I don’t know if this counts as character defects, but
I don’t really eat any fruits or vegetables,
I should eat-healthier-and-exercise-more,
and I should be less gross.
I’m a really gross person. A color wheel of comments,
stares, avoided glances, isolation, exclusion,
expulsion, swirl,
braiding sewage into my dna.
A story etched in time, from mitochondria eons old.
The truth is set in stone, and people can smell it.
There’s no ice to break. They don’t want to. It will smell too bad.

If we’re counting character defects,
I shouldn’t sweat so much or smell so bad,
and I have a lot of body hair & I don’t really
dress well. I don’t really dress
like a girl.
I’m never attracted to people who are attracted to me,
and people I want never want me.
I’m the problem. I should like who likes me
or I should be hotter
or I should give up.
I don’t remember when I tripped this trap,
tangled in my own limbs, net barely stretching around me.
The world is upside
down, I’m sticky, sickly, ugly foreign fruit
hanging from this tree, who doesn’t want me.
Who set this trap and when are they coming to get me?
I want who I want and that should be allowed.
shut up. Imagine having the audacity.

I guess if you want more character defects,
I’m really prone to dramatics.
I’m susceptible to going off the
deep end.
The peregrine falcon can dive for prey at 242 miles per hour.
I don’t know gentle spirals like peeling an apple or fun spirals like tornado potatoes
or silly spirals like optical illusions, black and white, and dizzying—light-hearted.
It is with a heavy heart, I trudge.
I’m impatient,
want beyond my means,
act beyond my station.
I am nothing and I should know that by now.
Happiness is for other people, not for me.
I’m ugly and no one would love me.

No one, or your parents?
I don’t have time for these strange questions.
Harpy eagles can see prey up to two miles away
with incredibly high acuity.
The voice I know the most is
my parents’,
a harsh and judgmental god’s,
with vision of my faults, flaws, and unworthiness.
I’m torn to shreds and I numb the pain. But I know it’s there.
It burns.
No one in the whole world can love me.

There’s 8 billion people. How can it be true?
My parents were my whole world for so long. How can you tell
me it’s not true?

There’s a whole other world out there.
My parents said they were the best in this world
and they loved me
and only wanted what’s best for me.
I don’t want to imagine how the world could possibly be worse than my parents.
I’m too afraid to find out.