She was a beauty,
a majestic creature
who was vain and proud.
She knew not her place in the world,
but created it.
She allowed none to define her.
A smirk took the place of a smile,
though a smile on her lusty lips
would have been a sight the gods would
have worked on for a century.
Cruelty lay in each invisible
pore in her skin.
But now she was old,
a decrepit museum of how false beauty
truly aged,
despite the surgeries and slaps of chemicals
across wrinkled skin.
The make-ups and oils had long
cracked and fallen from her face, and now
she was a mess of pockmarks and wrinkles.
Her sadistic driven sneers,
aimed at those foolish enough
to try for her love,
had caught up after all
and folded her face in a manner
that cried out "meanness".
Her beauty was gone
and she was alone,
sitting bitter in her memories,
stewing and nostalgic for pride.
Because, despite the way
she talked and sneered at those who tried to comfort her,
she knew that what she once had was gone,
and she spent much more time
stroking pictures that captured her youth
with a melancholy never before shared with another soul
than looking in the mirror.
She wished only that she had someone to love,
who could tell her that she was beautiful,
whether he meant her face or her heart.
which was bitter, only towards herself.
Pictures smashed against the wall,
and a once proud woman cursed the pride
that led to such a lonely life.
Really rough piece, but I have to wait a couple of days to really be objective.
Also, the last three lines were spur-of-the-moment add-ons.
Any thoughts?
Thanks for reading! c:
