I always thought of me as a fake
That cannot budget and cannot cook,
Has muddled dreams, just passable looks,
An inexplicable fondness for rakes.
I searched for traces of cellulite,
For tiny wrinkles, a grayish tint,
For dissipation from wasted nights,
For madness, lingering on a brink.
I always viewed myself as a ruse
That battles shyness and acts unfazed,
And when she hears a hurtful phrase -
Pretends that she is a bit obtuse.
Thus, I am easily bruised with shame -
So what? A horror tale has a twist:
It took a virtual cruel game
To see how real my beauty is.
Beauty
© Copyright: Кристина Девулите, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109072106448
Свидетельство о публикации №109072106448
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