The Performance of Beauty

They said I was born

under soft-lit skies,

with eyes like secrets

and lips for lies.

"Such a pretty girl,"

they cooed and claimed—

and life became

a photograph, framed.

At five, I learned

to sit up straight,

to smile for pictures,

to decorate.

At ten, I learned

that beauty stings—

boys throw pebbles

but not rings.

By sixteen, whispers

ran like wine—

"She's perfect, flawless,

so divine."

But pretty girls

don't cry in halls,

or eat dessert,

or scale their walls.

They don't grow tired

of hungry eyes,

or wish to trade

for some disguise—

to walk unnoticed,

freed from care,

a shadow lost

in common air.

At twenty, lovers

lined my door—

not for my mind,

but what I wore.

Their praise was sugar,

sweet then stale,

a sweetness sharp

enough to pale.

Compliments come

like coins in a cup,

tossed without thought

to fill me up.

"Beautiful," "stunning,"

the endless song,

as if adjectives

could make me strong.

But beauty is brittle,

a porcelain mask,

a lifelong sentence

I didn't ask.

I've been the trophy,

the prize, the throne—

and yet inside,

I stand alone.

Now twenty-two

and well-rehearsed,

I've learned my worth

is both gift and curse.

To be adored

yet never known,

a glass doll

on a velvet throne.

But cracks appear—

they always do.

And when they ask,

"What happened to you?"

I'll smile and say,

with perfect grace,

"I grew tired

of being a face."

And maybe one day,

they'll understand,

that beauty slips

like shifting sand.

That the girl they praised

was more than skin,

a cage of charm

with fire within.

So let the mirror

lose its hold,

let painted smiles

grow faint and old.

For pretty fades—

but scars remain,

and sometimes scars

tell truer names.