The sweetest tangerine

I saw you with her.

God, she’s beautiful.

That is something I can never be, not really.

Sure, there might be flickers of it,

traces from time to time.

An observant person might see,

underneath all the mess

and layers that worry has added,

that I might have been pretty once.

But that was many years and many miles ago…

So far away, I doubt I can ever get back there again.

I’m not like that goddess sitting in your car,

who’s never known what it’s like to feel awkward,

who fate has never had the audacity to scar up.

That perfect angel has never known hard times

or trouble

or struggle.

I’m not bitter,

only jealous a little

that life did not deem me worthy enough

to treat kindly.

For your sake, I hope she’s half as kind as she is pretty.

You’re a good man and you deserve, at the very least, that much.

Tonight, rain is falling and I’m feeling blue.

I really didn’t need the burden of seeing her with you.

I think you must have seen that in my face.

Some things I can’t hide with a smile,

even though I’ve had years of practice.

You try to be a good man, even if you don’t know it:

You offer me pity,

which anybody else would take.

I don’t want your pity.

I’d rather keep my dignity.

I’d rather be able to look at myself in the mirror

without feeling more pathetic than I already do.

Instead of taking your pity, there are

words that I must give to you, words you have to hear:

Keep your pity for yourself.

She might be a good girl

and she’s damn sure beautiful,

but there’s no one who will love you more than I do.

There’s no one who would treat you better than I could.

If you could see the truth, you’d know there’s no one

 you’d rather grow old with.

But you don’t see that now.

You see flawless beauty.

I’m the sweetest tangerine in the world,

but you can’t get past the blemished peel.

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