Beauty Fades, And Pride Punctures As You Fall
Over and over again
Beauty fades when the clock strikes and your slipper is lodged in memories.
Beauty escapes from the folds of skin, that hide the neck that used to gracefully force attention.
Beauty hates when you ask it why it left, when it never made any promises to you or the ones that got away.
Beauty can’t provide an alternative when the numbers pile up without the permission of years.
Beauty won’t listen when you stare at clear mirrors while galvanizing memories back into existence as the dew shifts to dethrone you.
Beauty can’t help you find an exit from the terror of tagged photos that bear your name, but not your likeness, like the convicted to the slaughterhouse of shame.
Beauty knows no shame. When you feel it — that’s when you know that you are no longer beautiful.
You are what was, when that was what you had to be, in order to be what you don’t want to be — now.
When the clock strikes — you dutifully crumple the evidence that won’t set you free — no matter how many years you discard — to prevent shedding.
The portrait resurfaces to show when beauty was fading, but pride remained.
After the fall.
