Some paint grace for flawless finish;
but some dark truths no concealer can conceal.
That scarlet gloss smears—not from love’s touch,
but from hands that quiet her will.
The liner refuses to run,
though tears fall like fountains still.
So beautiful, those glittering robes—
veiling marks not of love,
but stories etched in fragile skin,
silent, unseen, within.
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
Some paint grace for flawless finish;
but some dark truths no concealer can conceal.
That scarlet gloss smears—not from love’s touch,
but from hands that quiet her will.
The liner refuses to run,
though tears fall like fountains still.
So beautiful, those glittering robes—
veiling marks not of love,
but stories etched in fragile skin,
silent, unseen, within.