I glide through the room, my shoulders bare and glinting in amber candlelight.
My dress binds my senses together as my painted lips curl and part to please the crowd.
They flatter me, these people.
They tell me I’m beautiful, that I’m a sight to see.
But their words slip through my jeweled fingers like dust,
and once more I am empty.
Take away this sequined silk, and smear the color from my face.
Let this black mess of hair drape over my cold shoulders,
and let my rough hands come undone of luxury.
I want to be home and unabashedly miss you as I stand in rags in front of the stove.
It was here that I found myself only minutes after I had put on your musk-drenched shirt that morning.
It was here that I resolved you’d wake up to the smell of pancakes and infatuation.
It was here that you had wrapped your arms around me, my rags, and my flaws and clothed me in the word “beautiful”.
Standing here now, I suddenly remember,
It was here that I first believed it.
It was here that “beautiful” felt just right.