it's utterly quiet,
except for her breaths,
soft inhales and soft exhales –
it's utterly dark
and she's looking out the window; sleeping cities and dotted stars and devouring skies
but all she sees
is the mere reflection of herself,
stripped down of all the pretenses
and transparent smiles,
and she sees
the smudged mascara
and dried tears.
thin eyelashes and
the lipstick who's color disappeared long ago,
is this me?
she thinks,
at 4am in the morning.
would he still call me beautiful?
her dress sparkles like a sky full of stars
against her pale skin.
the pins no longer hold up her hair,
instead there's curls down her shoulders,
cascading around her back,
like a curtain,
covering, covering, covering.
it smells like cigarettes
and drinks,
but she's sober
yet can't seem to remember
the evening
or the day before
or what she's been doing
all her life
up till now.
Am I beautiful?
She rests her forehead against the glass, it's cold, and she feels like melting into it.
out, out, out
and
away
and into the air, the sky, the stars, the universe, she wants to
take off
the dress
the pins
the heels
she wants to take him off, and her
and everything
every word, every thought, every flicker of memory behind her eyelids and
every
time
his
lips
brushed
against
her.
No.
she thinks quietly, loudly, something in-between, and no one hears.
No, I'm not.
