I hated it.
Every single time
you called me beautiful,
I hated it.

I get it;
I have blue eyes,
long hair,
a thin body.
Everything you wanted.

But there's so much more to me than that.

I bet you wouldn't have liked me
if I had shorter hair
and a little extra weight.
That's why I realized I don't want a guy
who constantly calls me beautiful.

I want to be called
mesmerizing,
fascinating,
breathtaking.

Those words say much more about the real me
than "beautiful" ever will.

i scroll through the contacts on my phone
and realise there is no one i can call
nobody i can text
people ive had for 7 years
maybe more
their care for me has gone void
and i can sense it
can't you see?
it's all superficial  
every conversation
every look
it is all superficial
and i can blame anyone and anything for it
but none of that will change the truth and none of it
will gift me a new outcome

so now i sit alone
in a void room and i wonder
who will notice
who will care
when i am all but gone

for they will notice when i take my last breath
but nobody notices the moments before
not from afar

Darling, do not tell me that you are more beautiful with those drawings on your skin.
You've convinced yourself that they mean so much to you, and no one can even begin to understand, but I want you to know that the real beauty of an individual is more than simply skin deep.
That is why the ink on your skin does not impress me.
Everyone has stories and scars —I just choose not to wear mine on the outside.

there are good souls in this world
shrouded in weathered skin
dry and cracked
with scowls hung upon their face
balancing on the scars of their brow
just as there are bad souls in this world
hiding under plush skin
their faces adorned with kind eyes and
cherry red lips made for kissing
or spitting with rage

picture a gorgeous brunette
with fair skin, bold eyebrows
and her hair in a subtle
yet nineteen-thirties style updo
wearing a red chiffon summer dress
the sun beats down on her
as she glistens with light perspiration
espresso in-hand cigarette in the other
her pale soft skin no match for
the thirty degree heat outside
of this café she nonchalantly finds herself
she is the epitome of carefree beauty

she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning
exiling him to a six hour long toilet break
after she "forgot" she had let him out
before leaving to go shopping
whilst her feller finished his shift
because the dog is old and smelly
and gets almost as much attention as her
she even saw his pensioner neighbour
struggling to take the bins out
as she walked to her car
and laughed rather than help
because she always
thought Mary was a no good Jew
she even called her Mrs. Goldstein
"Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein."
but Mary's surname is Cohen

picture this beautiful girl a siren
leading good men astray
she can get any man she wants
and plucks only the finest
most succulent
I mean successful
and well put together men
from gardens of bachelors
maturing in the hardships of city life
she has plenty choice but she's fickle
you see, her man has to be almost perfect
for it to be as enjoyable as possible
to watch his life unravel and unfold
into everything he wanted it not to be

achievable only through toxic beauty
her joy is venom soaked insides
of lovers caught in a sultry web
of lies, ambition and ***
she loves a scandal
or a text sent to the wrong person
and she has everything to hide
but does nothing to do so
she gets by just fine
being beautiful and sickening  
and sickeningly beautiful
you know the sort
she is a bad, bad girl

i met him at a masquerade, a silly place
where people do not need names.

wearing the mystery of the night,
dancing under the raw spotlight,
his honey lips, his indecisive eyes
were feeding innocent souls with lies.

but then i saw him, at midnight,
alone and hidden with his one light
-the lonely moon, the queen of dead
in front of whom his cheeks turned red.

he was just a tragic moonlover
when the masquarade was over.
oh, that poor disguised angel
made falling in love seem so fatal...

What happened to all the beautiful girls?

Ones with fire in their eyes and gold in their chest

What happened to the precious pearls?

Who flowed like the wind and shone like the stars.



Did the ocean take away their sweet treasures?

And leave behind these empty shells

Whose shallow exterior can never measure

To the gem that lay within.



Did they ascend from the Earth?

And leave behind their shed skin

Whose plasticity cannot worth

The firmness that they held within.



Did the fire burn out their light?

And in their place plant seeds dud

Whose bitter fruits cannot incite

The fiery passion they fuelled.



Did the Earth swallow them whole?

And replace them with thorns

Which cannot fill the empty holes

That they left behind.



Or maybe it was the work of man

Who took those girls for granted

Moulded them to suit their wants

And bred them to the expectations they implanted.