She bears scars of unrest,
Face made up of tiny
Trembling blue and white.
Redness, caused scratching more
As her fingers swell, eyes
Burning with tears of shame.
She is pretty, yet less
So than the model on
The cover she once owned,
Like a sleepy paper-
Back novel. Pure pulp stuffs.
Eyes of driftwood fuel,
Flames and sober darkness.
She clicks back between two,
Caged by resisting sides --
Angles unwilling to
Free her. She could break moulds
If she dared to believe.
Splendor is not the sole
Possession of beauty,
Jealous creature. It is
Far deeper than morals
Or grievances. It burns
In mortal hearts and lips.
She looks in the mirror,
Confounded by her lack,
Once believed now destroyed.