waste.

Beauty is high maintenance. She is demanding, fickle and temperamental. She can be strong or weak. If you work with her and tend to her fragile needs, she will reward you. If, however, you decide to ignore her, you can lose her forever. There is nothing more heartbreaking to me than beauty wasted. How wonderful that a little bit of extra care and attention, that a small amount of grooming, can transform a face, a body, a person. The confidence you can receive from swapping your worn out loafers for a pair of shiny black stilettos is astounding. By elevating in inches you elevate in status. Your walk changes, your whole body changes, and with it so does your impression of yourself. Stop denying yourself the privilege of being beautiful! Make your hair look like it has seen a hairbrush and your skin feel as though it is akin to satin. With just a small thought for your appearance you can transform everything around you. Whether we want it to be or not, beauty is of the utmost importance to us all. It is an instantaneous reaction. It is an instinct. Men and women; you are equally guilty. To turn from your beauty is self destructive. To knowingly and consciously deny beauty through sloth or indifference is an unforgivable and utter waste. Beauty is a gift; do not squander it.

Layers of black

Anger or melancholy prompt a more frequent use of liquid eyeliner and dark shades of lipstick. I smear them on, layer upon layer upon layer. With this thick armour I am now strong, dangerous, invincible. I meander through the flesh packed into the tunnels of the London Underground with one leather-gloved hand nestled in my pocket. The sound of my stilettos hitting the ground precede my arrival on the platform. We're packed into the carriages like sardines. We shove, we push, we jostle each other. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I sneer. Sometimes my face is made of stone. It's 9am, and my eyes are in mourning.

Red Velvet Pleats

The day I met you, you were all in black,

Your heart gently bleeding and nailed to a plaque,

Singing butterflies tangled each thought

And clouded in mist the words we sought.

 

A home of paper, white paint and pain,

We’d dance on the stairs and hide tears in the rain,

With fingernails we’d scratch at textured pages

And rule from soaring gilded cages.

You scattered my name to cover your woes

And pierced my flesh with a single red rose,

You shattered your skull in search of a muse

And I ensnared your wrists in a hundred tattoos.

We’d ignite on cream paper, leather-bound,

When we screamed the others didn’t hear a sound,

My hand in yours amongst heart-shaped eyes,

Destroying and obliterating all we despised.

I saw only beauty in your sinister designs,

Your jerky scrawl, your ethereal lines,

The red velvet pleats that enveloped your form

Seemed to reveal that you’d never conform.

Suits and shirts, you were sharp and defined,

Presentable, polite, though sadistically inclined,

But you’d close your eyes and in dreams you’d drown,

Your pleats unfurling and falling down.

I stitched them up with bleeding cries

Until your armour began to rise,

But when I needed you here to stay,

You gathered your pleats and ran away.

A dozen letters, sealed and signed

That in your hurry you left behind,

A jagged, red figure glaring, betrayed,

And a scrap of velvet which has begun to fade…