Fragile fingernails.
Aching fingers.
Black rimmed cuticles.
Red in the valleys.
White in the peaks.

There is a point
where the stars fall to the Earth
and our voices raise the heavens.
Then there is nothing but our voices-
our prayers pulled down the stars
and now there is nothing left.

I don't know who faces me in the mirror.
She is very beautiful, face a painted perfection.
My eyes burn and I see hers water in return.
I don't know who we are.
Or who we will be.
But we are beautiful now.

My eyelids are gold.
My lips rosy, and lashes black.
A contrast against light hair.

It's raining, now.
The temptation to go and walk until I cannot stand without shuddering from cold is unbearable.
But my mascara will run, and she will disappear.
And there will be no thick foundation to hide my blush, or eyeliner to mask hysteria.

I have places to be today- so do you.
None of us, none at all, can afford to not be beautiful.
Not today. Not tomorrow.

Only yesterday.

We are all made of papers torn out of our notebooks, drifting.
Drawn emotions and writing nobody will ever see.
And all we want is to be seen and called 'good'.

It doesn't matter where I am, or who I am with.
If there is no one in the bathroom, or any room really,
I will always knock- to alert the ghosts that someone is there,
in the case that if I were to join them unexpectedly, they would hopefully be kind.

The volume is at full percent, and then some.
If you listen close enough, you can hear a piano in the far, left back row of sounds, shoved clumsily to the side.
The bass shakes my eardrums, so deep the earphones only make a dull hum as an imitation of the mind-shattering sound.
It's a heavy and fast-paced requiem service.
A shame the volume dosen't go louder.