a million thoughts all at once after a brief interaction with a customer at work

A customer told me today

That she thought

I had the prettiest face

I found myself wondering

If she knew

That I needed that

That I was about to

Get off work

And go home

Alone

After this shitty week

And try to last

Until my roommate got home

With no supervision

Alone

With my crippling depression

Trying not

To slice open

That pretty face

What would she think

About my face

If the scars were still there

Would she feel pity?

Empathy?

Would she get on her knees

Grieve with me?

For me?

I'm not sure why

I have the inexplainable urge

To tell everyone I come in contact with

That I'm dying

That I don't believe my face is pretty

I don't know what this woman

Could have done

I don't want her to take my pain

To be a burden

I just want to be seen

Or expose

Maybe that's it

Maybe I feel like a phony

A monster capable of destruction

A dying creature

Screeching in Darkness

Unworthy of a pretty face.