Her green eyes are blue if you look closely enough.
They’re flecked with rust.
There’s no irony in the fact
Her eyes are greener when she cries.
She cries for no reason though, and I resent that.
I resent weakness. Her weakness.

Her skin is a white that bleeds into purple.
Not regal, just mottled.
Pale skin stretched over limbs that
Occupy the wrong amount of space.
She’s too round. Too short.
I resent that. I resent her flesh’s faint wobble.

She tried, once, to impress beauty upon her features
But with only a child’s Crayola result.
I resent that.
Her fumbling words and her half conceived wit.

Above the bathroom sink,
Glazed eyes framed with lank hair stare out from a reflective surface.
I resent that reflective surface, possibly more than her.