If Her Face is a Poem, Then Mine is...

Prose.

Introspect into Her. Make of it what you will faceless void.

She is neither nameless nor faceless. She likes those she has well enough. She’d be perfectly happy to throw them away. If there was ever a true thing about her, it is that there is never a constant truth where she is concerned. She is ever fluid, flowing to and from opposite states of being. Occasionally she can be at both points at once, a human contradiction. She wears many masks, layered and interchanged until her true face has become a mystery, even to herself. Too afraid to chip away at the façade, for what if she in her entirety is painted on. Out of her mouth drop many lies, some glitter prettily in the light, while some get murkier the longer you look, and others are as black as tar falling from her lips. From those lips wells a bubbly brook of truth and lies, merged so well not even she can separate them. She enjoys pain in many forms, her fingers lovingly search her skin for cuts and bruises, caressing each as if it were a treasured possession, her psyche is on a constant hunt for pieces of art that bring her silent tears, the words, images, and sounds jagged edges that cut at her insides. And yet, she is a hedonist, craving the pleasures life has to offer. The silken feel of high count sheets against her skin, the feel of smooth sand flowing between her fingers, the exquisite sensation, the taste of a piece of dark Belgian chocolate melting on her tongue, the euphoria that follows, the aroma of good coffee, a bath with all the works, softness, kindness, joy, laughter. She has the need to fill every moment with these extremes. She does not know moderation, nor does she want to, it fills her with fear. It is very important to fill the voids and nothingness. She is conceited and full of pride, ashamed and self loathing. She yearns for maturity and sophistication almost as much as she wants to remain a child. She is invincible, but will shatter at the lightest touch. She is bright and cheery to the utmost degree, brimming with enthusiasm and lust for life until ever she is unaware of the dark muck bubbling beneath the surface, all ugliness and whispers of discontent and her own demise. Her mind is bombarded with a myriad of images, some merely melancholy, others grotesque. In her minds eye she sometimes sees her insides, black and rotten. She is not a good person she knows. Her soul feels tattered and worn around the edges, like sheets that have been washed so many times the grime has become part of them. She gives the impression of ordered chaos when the truth is it is merely chaos. Alternately hesitant and compulsive, always at the wrong moment. There is very little she does not regret. She is happiest when the disjointed melee inside of her is kept down to a dull roar, so that she can drown it out with the sound of her own voice. Her confident smile is tremulous at best, hiding self-doubt oceans deep. Often the words ‘ghastly grin’ float to the surface of her mind. Don’t ask her to make decision, it might break her. She says she is a woman, but thinks of herself as a girl. She is nothing but a dull penny, as common as dirt. She is the truest lie you’ll ever hear.