She wears the mask of beauty. Beautifully wicked.
She hides behind a face so perfect. Starry eyes and glossy lips. The beauty is in her eyes.
She covers herself with a body of a goddess. Great curves, nice round breast with thighs that match her amazingly. I wish I was her.
The way that flowing gown drapes around her body, showing off her outer beauty. Screaming fans all around her as she stands in this populated town as limos surround.
The lens of cameras shutters as women in flowing dresses walk pass, as paparazzi’s mutters and shouts.
The way she walks. She walks in beauty like the night. And every step she takes, they all meet in her aspect.
1 step, 2 step, 3 step, 4, magazines are photo-shooting her, she’s soon to be on the cover. 5 step, 6 step, 7 steps, 8, screaming fans and all they do is stare and hover. 9 step, 10. I want the heels of my stilettos to feel the dark red carpet of fame beneath, as she stands on that carpet with people in awe of her presence.
Women compete for the category of best eyes, best hair, best clothes and best bare. They are all beautiful. But she stands out even more, for her beauty is rare.
Beauty is her. The walk of fame has her name.
Beast is me. The category that I’m under is unknown to our universe, drifting through space of broken dreams.
Endless nightmares of a world, where I was beautiful, where I was fair, where I was elegant, with a beauty that can’t be covered with makeup. Because true beauty has no flaws.
I’m trapped in my head and there’s no way out. I’m screaming and crying, but there’s no-one to hear me. No doctor or pill can take the pain away. People will never understand.
I heard beauty is that which pleases and delights, but when I see beauty, I break down and cry.
Of course, I consider beauty for hours. In mirrors.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 12:30 AM UTC