In front of the large window at the end of the corridor she stands- back slouched and frustration etched into her sun kissed face- staring deep into the reflection while undoing and re-doing the bun she had attempted this morning in the bus
"It's perfect" he whispers into her ear, but she does not hear him, instead she picks up her books and stares hard at the ground, watering the cold concrete with drops of salty liquid
"Don't cry" he whispers with concern in his voice "just wait for the complement's, you'll see what they say"
She walks off before he can continue on, head down, quick steps - that was the drill. Then maybe they won't see her
His smile fades as she walks off but he follows slowly behind her - making sure she's never alone
YOU ARE READING
I Preach
PoetryThese aren't poems but declarations of the beauty of "her". In the age of ones beauty being stolen from them and claimed as their own it's harder for "her" to stand out of the crowd. "He" kisses her scars which were once wounds. Skin pierced by the...
