They say sapiens carry pain
in the curve of spine,
that long ago,
when apes dreamed skyward
and dared lift their eyes above
the swaying grass,
Nature whispered:
you will pay, upright creature—
the cost hidden in bone, in nerve,
in the gravity-pulled agony of ascent.
And today, inexplicably,
pretty girls bear the weight of worlds
on slender backs
arched and elegant,
shoulders etched
with some strange inheritance—
as if God,
anticipating symmetry,
placed beauty's burden there,
just beneath their skin,
just above the soft hum of pulse.
Perhaps evolution,
in its quiet cruelty,
knows grace carries tension:
the ache behind perfection,
the silent price for standing straight,
for turning heads,
for existing softly
in a harsh, vertical world.
We have named bones
after saints and martyrs,
and learned anatomy
through crucibles and sorrows.
Why then,
shouldn't pretty girls
hold heaven's invisible anchor,
the silent tug
of cosmic rationale,
the melancholy poetry
of elegance and pain
balanced precariously
between beauty and burden?
It must be
that the universe chose
this delicate architecture
of spine, bone, and heartache,
so we'd understand,
even slightly,
the tangled truth
that beauty and uprightness
come at a cost—
as if existence itself
required posture,
poise,
and inevitable ache.
