She isn't beautiful.

She already knew this, but the truth still hurts. 
She faces the wall and her body speaks. 

"It's alright," says her heart, as her shoulders shake with the rhythm of sobs. Her small hands grasp her arms in comfort. An icy, throbbing pain seeps through her limbs and down to her toes; she draws her knees to her chest like a shield, no, like a wall. A wall to keep the fury and the grief and the humiliation inside, from soaking her bed and waking her ignorant lover. 

"I still love you," says her body. Her uneven ******* rise with her shallow gasps, her marred skin warms her frozen soul, her graceless legs protect her and her body loves her, loves her even if he doesnt. Even if he doesn't see her for anything but her faults, her body loves her. It is hers and hers alone and no one else will love her like she loves herself. 

"You're very pretty," says her brain, but it is of no comfort to her, only a reassurance that she will never be desired like a fairy tale princess, never mistaken for an angel. No wars would be fought over her, no dances ever asked of her. No matter the pain or the paint or the tears or the tries. 

She isn't beautiful. 

She already knew this.