My thoughts aren’t really mine,
they were planted inside my mind.

Just like my feelings aren’t mine,
they just follow what’s called right.

Neither is my face mine,
a mixture of all ancestors.

My body also isn’t mine,
it will die and decompose.

Nothing I own belongs to me,
I will lose it all when I die.

And if none of these things is my own,
then,
who am I?

I am a sinner,
A sinner who dared dreamt of love,
A sinner whose only sin was to be hideous,
A sinner who did not know it was a sin,
A sin to not be perfect as the world wants.

A beast who never got the beauty,
A dwarf in love with the sleeping beauty,
A frog who did not turn into a prince when kissed,
A Bluebeard without the forbidden room,
A beast who was never a cursed prince, never blissed.

So I tear away pieces of myself to be perfect,
To be someone, not bound by their looks—
The polite boy, the helpful friend, the good guy,
The martyr, the forgotten, the soldier of a hopeless war.
Only to be reminded I’ll always be the loveless one.

Beauty and the Beast, sounds so lovely, doesn’t it?
But I never wanted to be the beast.
It never sounded hopeful or enchanting in my abyss.
All I could hear was pity and sympathy,
Mixed with my demeaning and desperate pleas.

Is love such a luxury,
That one needs to be perfect to reach it?
Or is it just the case for me?
I see everywhere people have it and are happy—
Why are they nowhere close to the ideals burdened upon me?

So I weep and weep without cries and shouts
I weep for one to love me and only me unconditionally
To drown in me as I would for them—
To love me as deeply as I love,
But no one ever does.