Ugly isn’t scars.
It’s clean skin
and a mouth full of rot.

It’s a smile that cuts
and stays polite.
It’s kindness
with a leash.

Ugly is the lie
told like gospel,
the sorry that never comes—
just a shrug,
like wreckage is nothing.

It’s silence
when someone’s drowning.
It’s laughter
with teeth.

Ugly doesn’t hit.
It owns.
Ugly is power
sugarcoated in love,
a hand on your back
guiding you off a cliff.

It’s envy—
slow, bitter, patient—
you don’t deserve that
but I do
echoing behind every compliment.

It doesn’t scream.
It whispers.
Twists.
Waits.

Ugly shrinks people.
Teaches them
to flinch at kindness.
To hate themselves
for needing anything.

It wears a tie.
It kisses goodnight.
It blends in at dinner
and never breaks a sweat.

Ugly is calm.
Ugly is clever.
Ugly smiles while you bleed
and says
you’re overreacting.

Ugly doesn’t shout.
It rewrites.
Until you wonder
if it ever happened
at all.