Too Much For Them
They say I’m too beautiful—
as if awe were a crime,
as if the curve of jaw and flame
should beg for lesser time.
Outside my town, they stop and stare,
women whisper, “Is he real?”
But back at home, my beauty burns
in hearts too numb to feel.
They say I’m too cold—
as if frost were a flaw,
as if the peace I found in ice
defied their sacred law.
I breathe where others lose their breath,
I stand where heat would make them kneel.
They melt in panic—I remain,
the calm they’ll never steal.
Too beautiful to be embraced,
too cold to be controlled.
Too much for those who only love
what fits their bitter mold.
I thought beauty meant something good—
a grace, a light, a balm.
But mine became a loaded word
in hands that shun the calm.
I walk alone, a paradox—
a flame encased in snow.
They hate the man who dares to shine
where they refuse to grow.
They call me names, they twist my truth,
they spit what they can’t tame.
But I am not their broken lens,
not their projected shame.
Too beautiful for their small eyes,
too cold for their warm lies.
Too whole, too sharp, too elemental—
a truth they won’t baptize.
So let them choke on what I am,
let them drown in what I give.
I am the echo of their loss—
the beauty they could never live.
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