I meet his stare and I see his appreciation flare. It’s in the way he looks me up and down -weighing the years. Balancing the wear and tear against the maintenance performed.
I clean up pretty good.
Paint covers a multitude of sins.
He tells me I’m lovely, and I’m not sure why this bothers me as much as it does…
Knowing that he sees the same slicked up version of myself that I saw in the mirror earlier, I’m not surprised.
I conform to please.
I squeezed. Squinted. Succumbed. Poured the mold so many expect, and painted my exterior pretty for the world tonight.
All he sees is the canvas but not the brushstrokes. He does not know the melding of the colors, or the carefully crafted application of texture that went into the statue that stands here, alone, before him.
I feel my legs shake, not for want of him… he does look handsome and reckless as hell. But no, my legs shake because I’m forcing them to walk towards another one. Someone who is only interested in comeliness and outward beauty.
You see I’ve written my hopes and dreams, my passions and my longings – inside my soul. I’ve meticulously fashioned them in braille. I’m hoping that the one meant for me will travel through my universe with pulsing, needy hands and read the volumes I carry within.
He will understand the depth of a woman is inside her body. He will want to fall in love with his eyes closed. He won’t care about the book cover because the story I’ve scribed inside will enamor his heart.
I am a novel, and I need to be read… over and over again.
Picture from WeHeartIt