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Eventually, you get used to it: Every time you walk into a room And all eyes turn to glare at your noticeable difference. They can’t help but gasp and raise their Hands to cover their mouth As if I wouldn’t notice their jaws Dropping to the floor. I used to shy away from their stares And quickly scurry to hide in the dark Shadows around the edges of the room. Now, I look them directly in the eyes And give a nod of recognition And treat their stares as gazes of admiration Even knowing they are appalled by my deformity. But, really, who is deformed? A man with two-eyes is deformed in a Cyclops convention. Standing on two feet would be a deformity in a world full of Centaurs. In a universe of bald people, that one who requires shampoo would be the odd ball. I defy their stares, their gawks, and their looks of pity. My difference, I dare say, sets me apart from your deformed normalcy. I hold my head up high and sit in the most prominent position in the room. Proud of my difference – for it gives me a perspective on things that You can never achieve. I am unique; I do not envy those who are clones of what society considers the perfect shape and form. Stare if you will Your jealousy, as I choose to see it, is unbecoming and yet flattering. Thank you for noticing that I am different. I am sure no one watched your every step when you entered the room. And now, you may feel sorry for yourselves instead.