Beauty

She was dressed up in pearls and satin. She spun tentatively on her seldom worn high heels (the ones that made her legs look like a sleek pair of chopsticks), perfumed hair floating in soft freshly-washed wisps. Tonight, she felt beautiful. Beautiful in that dangerous way that made girls heady, overconfident and powerful. That made them want to slow down their walk, tilt their head and do something they might regret.

Walking a few steps, she saw that the facade was slipping away.Her skin felt oily. Her feet hurt. She was cold. She paused, readjusting the folds in her skirt, so that they swayed perfectly to the rhythm of her saunter. Maybe that was it. But after a few more steps, she realized it wasn't.

It was because she had siphoned the power away when she was putting on her earrings and dabbing perfume on her wrists. As she was sliding the cool silk of her dress across her skin, a smile played on her lips when she imagined his reaction. And that was all it took to lose that power.

Now she was the one being controlled. She needed his affirmation, his acknowledgement... any sign to tell her that she was beautiful. When she looked at her reflection in the glass window as she walked past, she saw nothing but a girl in too high heels, waiting to be noticed. The facade had faded.



If he wasn't looking at her, would she still be pretty?


If nobody thinks about you, would you still exist?