She is beautiful. To me, to the world. What is that like? To be admired, to be loved, for simply…existing. I look at her and my eyes feast on her flawless skin, like leeches attaching themselves to a diseased man. Would that I could have her face. To shed my skin like a snake sheds its own, and slip into hers. To be her. To consume her.

Her eyes are spring. Greens and yellows meshed into slanted orbs, surrounded by eyelashes long enough to rest upon her cheekbones. Her mouth is perfectly pink and plump, a mouth made for telling lies and soothing kisses. Her skin held the sun no matter the season, as if it was just as enraptured by her as i was.

The closer i get to her, the more i see she is not perfect. Her chin slants outward with the stubbornness of her character, prepared to argue, to entice.

Her nose sits upon her face, out of place, like a swan with a bedazzled beak, shiny and new until you peek closer and realize its human made garbage.

But her hair…..It frames her. Not her face, but her stature, her being. The mahogany tresses clash with autumnal fire, coiling and curling along the curvature of her back. I curl one strand around my finger and she jumps back in surprise. As my hands tighten around her throat, her spring eyes give way to the stillness of cold harsh winter.

She was beautiful. To me, to the world….

and now the seasons she held, and my love she expelled dies along with her.

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