FFT

To All But God

When you see me you see only a fat Indian
an ugly woman
a too young mother
a shabby dresser
When you hear me you hear only a toothy lisp
a faltering memory, a too talkative loner, a frustrated yell
If you delve a little deeper you'll find
poor health - a drain to health care
two kids - a drain on welfare
mental illness - a drain to the sane

You'll never know the beautiful child
who loved to dress up as a princess
or the dynamic grad speaker
who had the crow on its feet
or the vibrant bride full of hope for a lifelong partner in love
To you I remain pitiful, worthless, unloveable - to all but God

You think I don't see your arrogant sneer
don't hear your hostile snicker
as I lug groceries and kids and my swollen body
on buses, through malls, across busy streets
I keep my eyes down but my head up
I turn stone deaf to the jagged slurs
I choke back a tear and keep my mouth shut.
Now my pain becomes visceral
It cannot be hidden
So I dance like St. Vitas and draw more stares still
I'm reminded of how I must seem
how pathetic, how odd
I can't prove my beauty -
to any but God.

-Heather Slade