She flicks on the TV, the little black box defecating lies and telling her she wasn't beautiful.
"my darling watch a movie" I encourage her hoping she would forget about the lies that she had been told. She turns on the box of lies and I watch as she gazes hopelessly at the heroins and characters which she praises.
My darling attempts to walk like them and talk like them but collapses at the realisation that she is not them nor can she become them.
I cowardly blind myself attempting to stop myself from seeing these unrealistic expectations.
"Darling turn away from this box of lies" I cry trying my best to see my darling. Yet my darling fails to see me and continues on watching the flashing objects on the screen.
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...
