186. Beaten Into Beauty

It's like digging through concrete

Fingernails painting the ground

A painful red from the blood.

You open your hand to me,

Face up without a hinge to fear,

Until our hands meet to say hello.

"Your hands look so beautiful,

But they scrape like a knife!"

I'm used to it.

My beauty, it wasn't by me, for me.

It was for you, and you, but especially you.

So I wouldn't drown in vocal torment.

My demure, my doubt, my incapacity,

It's so I could win you over.

At the cost of loving myself.

The sparkle in your eyes,

Won by admiration,

Cost me.

Will I ever get it back?

My individuality.

Or trapped by destiny.

If I didn't display full of grace,

Would you have spat on my face?

Through living a fib I am safe.