Mascara commands my lashes to spread and curve over my insecurities,
My lips are forced to take the shade in which they're given today,
It's a deep red, a moving red, captivating to the soul in the ways I wished my naked smile could accomplish,
My hair defies gravity, my thighs obey,
I look at the scale as curls slip to my eyes and I see that lack of gravity I wish I could transfer to my thighs and I,
I am shrinking in my comparisons, of who I am and the me well thought of, I seem to be more in love with desire than fact,
I can't love the moment,
I've learned to move faster than the bullets and in my eyes I see death approaching,
I see ugly disaster, not only marked on my soul but in the physical display of the wretched human ,
I am such a pitiful chaos,
I look at my mirror once more and see the glass crack, shards of it aimed at my mind
Monday Mornings
