Jan 10
Mrs. Beauty,
Were you born radiant,
Or did you forge the light from shadows?
I saw you, trembling before the mirror,
Smoothing away the remnants of who you used to be.
Each gesture spoke a quiet violence,
And I thought, maybe one day, you'd whisper it to me:
"Beware the warnings, my dear."
But who reads warnings
When their skin has already become a battlefield?
"If you want to feel wanted,"
You said, voice laced with bitter laughter,
"Call the experts—they'll pierce you like a corpse,
Drape you in beauty you can't keep."
I never asked for this gospel,
But you offered it anyway,
Your words carving me into someone I didn't want to become.
"Forever young, forever flawless,"
Your hymn, a cruel lullaby,
But my baby-soft skin is betraying me.
It stiffens into hide, fractures into lines.
"Don't be dramatic," you sneered,
"It's just a little plastic."
But your voice, a knife, still echoes:
"No one loves the ugly."
Oh, Mrs. Beauty, is it true?
Does pain bleed into beauty?
Does the scalpel come with guarantees?
Can a mask of perfection
Drown out the screams of a fractured soul?
Or does the crack go deeper in silence?
And you, Mr. Beauty, answer me—
What was the price of her transformation?
Did you pledge eternity,
Even as her reflection shattered?
Did you love the woman,
Was this form actually her true identity, or only a shell she had to turn into?
It is never an investment as to how whole we will become,
But to break ourselves, to remodel us again,
To glitter from afar; glitter cheats.
It glittered from your smile-frozen,
Another work of perfect nothingness,
"If you want confidence," you'd say,
"Potatoes become French fries,
Sprinkle salt and pay a fortune for validation."
But I watched you—
Watched soft edges harden into knives,
Watched you teach me how to disappear,
How to carve myself into something else
And still never be enough.
It's a tragedy, isn't it?
How little girls inherit their mothers' faces,
Only to sever the lineage with blades and chemicals.
We learn to cut and paste,
To stretch our lips wide in suffocating smiles,
To erase every flaw
Until we're ghosts in frames of gold.
"Forever young, forever perfect,"
You sang while the truth slipped through your fingers.
"Don't be dramatic—just a little plastic."
But are we more than plastic?
The hollow echoes of something real,
Smooth, yet hollow,
Masking the cracks that are.
Oh, Mrs. Beauty, I ask you-
Is that a genuine smile,
Or yet another camouflage with which to cover the devastation inside?
Would you love me
When my frailties,
My face falling to pieces?
And every time I see in your eyes,
Am I just seeing a memory of the girl who was,
Or is it just the ghost you've become?
A blur of pretty lies,
Fragile as the dream we all die chasing. Mrs. Beauty, Break Me
Were you born radiant,
Or did you forge the light from shadows?
"Forever young, forever flawless,"
Your hymn, a cruel lullaby,
I didn't ask for this gospel,
But you gave it anyhow,
Your words making incisions on me that I did not want to be.
Were you born radiant,
Or did you forge the light from shadows?
I saw you, trembling before the mirror,
Smoothing away the remnants of who you used to be.
Each gesture spoke a quiet violence,
And I thought, maybe one day, you'd whisper it to me:
"Beware the warnings, my dear."
But who reads warnings
When their skin has already become a battlefield?
"If you want to feel wanted,"
You said, voice laced with bitter laughter,
"Call the experts—they'll pierce you like a corpse,
Drape you in beauty you can't keep."
I never asked for this gospel,
But you offered it anyway,
Your words carving me into someone I didn't want to become.
"Forever young, forever flawless,"
Your hymn, a cruel lullaby,
But my baby-soft skin is betraying me.
It stiffens into hide, fractures into lines.
"Don't be dramatic," you sneered,
"It's just a little plastic."
But your voice, a knife, still echoes:
"No one loves the ugly."
Oh, Mrs. Beauty, is it true?
Does pain bleed into beauty?
Does the scalpel come with guarantees?
Can a mask of perfection
Drown out the screams of a fractured soul?
Or does the crack go deeper in silence?
And you, Mr. Beauty, answer me—
What was the price of her transformation?
Did you pledge eternity,
Even as her reflection shattered?
Did you love the woman,
Was this form actually her true identity, or only a shell she had to turn into?
It is never an investment as to how whole we will become,
But to break ourselves, to remodel us again,
To glitter from afar; glitter cheats.
It glittered from your smile-frozen,
Another work of perfect nothingness,
"If you want confidence," you'd say,
"Potatoes become French fries,
Sprinkle salt and pay a fortune for validation."
But I watched you—
Watched soft edges harden into knives,
Watched you teach me how to disappear,
How to carve myself into something else
And still never be enough.
It's a tragedy, isn't it?
How little girls inherit their mothers' faces,
Only to sever the lineage with blades and chemicals.
We learn to cut and paste,
To stretch our lips wide in suffocating smiles,
To erase every flaw
Until we're ghosts in frames of gold.
"Forever young, forever perfect,"
You sang while the truth slipped through your fingers.
"Don't be dramatic—just a little plastic."
But are we more than plastic?
The hollow echoes of something real,
Smooth, yet hollow,
Masking the cracks that are.
Oh, Mrs. Beauty, I ask you-
Is that a genuine smile,
Or yet another camouflage with which to cover the devastation inside?
Would you love me
When my frailties,
My face falling to pieces?
And every time I see in your eyes,
Am I just seeing a memory of the girl who was,
Or is it just the ghost you've become?
A blur of pretty lies,
Fragile as the dream we all die chasing. Mrs. Beauty, Break Me
Were you born radiant,
Or did you forge the light from shadows?
"Forever young, forever flawless,"
Your hymn, a cruel lullaby,
I didn't ask for this gospel,
But you gave it anyhow,
Your words making incisions on me that I did not want to be.
