I don’t know what makes ugly: straight noses or forgetting to wash your face with tapped water after you cry. I’m starting to think, just maybe, ugly is pretty’s sweet cousin. I’m starting to think, just maybe, ugly always puts effort into creating gentle. 

For instance, I know this nigga named Mark’wain. People say he received clemency. I don’t know much about that but Mark’wain sure was ugly and he was strong enough to pit bulls to quiet–always held the door open for the person coming in. Don’t get me wrong his appearance was frightening but no one shuddered around him unless a cool breeze sprinted and quickly condensed high afternoon sweat into the saltdrink sun juices in late June. 

When I say he was ugly? He was UGG-LEE! And his mama loved him and his brothers loved him and all his lovers loved him. And he loved them too with written letters and delicate kisses and held hands and smiles made wholesome by jumbled teeth. Mark’wain was the ugliest nigga I ever did know and I’ve been trying to come into myself like him ever since I first seen him: behind the bread truck, telling the pigeons it was safe to eat what he offered. He read about them, gathered what they liked, and prepared feed fit to their pleasure. 

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