You disapprove of my looks. They anger you. They threaten the false reality you’ve built for yourself – a small cocoon to feel safe away from logic or thought or questioning. Now my looks, those of an outsider, threaten this thin pathetic spiderweb that wraps your world – and you hate me for it.
You judge me – and judge me fallen, lost, worthless. For my looks. I’m a heathen in your book – that book of judgement written by years of crusty prejudices. I must be evil, I must be bad influence, I must be trouble waiting to happen. For my looks. In your world, everything is exactly as it seems, and I seem unworthy. For my looks.
Like a creeping, black disease, you worry I will infect your world. If you let the likes of me in, you’ll never get us out again. We spread like vermin. you cut one down two spring up. We stink the place with our looks. We poison the translucency with our looks. Nothing will ever be the same again because of our looks.
Beyond my looks, which you hate, lies nothing. You cannot see anything but a barren wasteland. To you, I’m the sum of my looks – which is a nothing. I’m a no-good, spreading the vice of my looks wherever I go. The only solution for the likes of me is to ban us from your world. Bar it up and let our influence never creep through, lest it sticks to your world. Let us be unwritten, erased out of existence, like a bad story better left untold.
You know what? You’re absolutely right. Beyond my looks, there is nothing there for you. Judge me however you like, now stand, and see if I care. Or leave back to your world. After all, it’s perfect there. There’s no place for my looks.