Noura Kiridly
My Ugly

If I were a man,
I could take ownership of my Ugly.
I could claim it,
let it empower me,
grimace with a half-smoked cigarette,
blow smoke through yellow teeth,
pour some whiskey, and celebrate with it.
I could smile smugly, write books about my Ugly,
and bring a woman home so she could breathe love into my Ugly—
and she would love my Old, too, and if she didn’t,
with enough money,
I could find a Pretty who would.
But,
I am a woman,
stripped from ownership of my Ugly.
It claims me:
The tyrant of the Beautiful remains within and outside of me
while I pick up coins of pity,
seek new ways to apologize, and embody my lack-there-of.
And this slow loss of worth—imprinted by years of knowledge,
marks left in my skin—
always reminds:
All is quantified. All is measured,
re-priced, and marked down—
my for-sale womanhood.