Pugnaciously tight lips and a Scottish nose define the leftward parenthesi of an oblong face that disquiets all who look at it. So disfigured is the face, that condescension is assumed.
It speaks. “I believe that people are capable of a great good — capable of love”
What presumption. What pomposity.
Strands of dirt frame stubbled chin and jaw, and look as if everything the face does is in service of itself; in service of its own fucked up ends.
It speaks. “As a child, I too was abused and traumatized, and I took that experience as excuse to live a cursed existence. I’ve grown. I’ve learned. I am better.
What won’t it do to cover up? Why won’t it die?
Wire rims below bushy brows, and dark pools of auburn set in white which telegraph only lonely solipsism.
It speaks. “Twice daily everyone should reflect and consider how they have fallen short of their own goals. Not to shame themselves, but to take stock.
Horseshit! How lame!
Scott Mitchel May is a writer living in rural Wisconsin with his family. You can follow Scott on Twitter @smitchelmay