Beautiful by Desirae Lee

She was beautiful;

and broken;

and hard to understand.

She wore two big hoops for ears,

sticky shades of pastel for her mouth,

Thick layers of mascara became her eyes,

And she walked on platforms made of heels

But every Sunday she refused to kneel.

 

She would ask the moon for guidance as blasphemy enticed her lips.

And faith lost all meaning

As she wished on stars that pass her by too quickly

to even acknowledge her existence

But at least she knew they were there

The trails of dust were just enough

To maybe fill in that empty crevice in her chest

 

Because;

She worshiped the bartender.

And the mountains offered her all the peace of mind she needed.

She prayed to Versace.

The rain, and the hail, and the sleet and the snow covered all her guilt.

She professed all sins to her drug dealer.

The canyons knew the depths of her soul.

She knelt to all forms of currency .

The oceans were her serenity.

And she gave her life to any man that was screwing her currently

 

Because she was beautiful

And broken

And hard to understand

She was losing her senses

Unwilling to admit that her mind was demented

 

She once put her faith in a wooden cross

Leaving her with nothing but a heart full of splinters

every time she even passed by a church It felt as though the flesh was being ripped off her skin

It took everything in her to realize that her dreams were frozen and melting at the same time

 

She couldn’t bear the expectations

Or stand up to the damnation

While the shame of having doubts piled on even more criticism.

Why put faith in something that you can’t see!

Where is the reassurance in an invisible God?

 

If the usher is a crook,

Decan rolls dice,

The Sunday school teacher goes clubbing

And bishop cheated on his wife twice.

Where is the reassurance in a twelve year old girl screaming pastor please don’t touch me there!

 

If that’s the case, then galaxies don’t exist

The expansion into nothing is beyond human vision

and Microorganisms are a figment of the imagination.

digital financial transactions don’t count as a purchase.

Promises are disposable.

the afterlife is a myth

and miracles don’t happen

Just because she’s never witnessed one

 

She worshiped spirits not through

Broomsticks and cauldrons

Hocus pocus and magic

But by fearing life itself she magnified the power of the death

her faith had become  a displaced child

tucked away in the corner of an orphanage

 

Her eyes were always dripping

Creating the shallow puddle that she stood in

 

Pain entered every crevice of her body

But it was nothing that the doctors could heal

 

The idea of finding revelation in a higher being was disgusting

She found truth in materialism

And dressed up the idea of freedom

But no designer or name brand

Was ever fashion forward enough to rewind her past

 

She had long realized;

Looking straight in the mirror is a lot easier

than straining her neck to look towards the heavens

 

Because she was beautiful,

And broken,

And hard to understand.