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.

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