All that glamours and shines,
The beauty I see, is of a different kind.
It’s not her body, heart or her mind,
It’s her pain and scars, earned through time.
She dragged her thoughts around like a velvet robe. Blood dripped from her collar bones, where the robe was sewed with threads of sinewed time, the weight of her thoughts enough to tug at her skin, keeping wounds fresh to never heal, never to seal.
Even so, she could drag that robe across dry arid lands, over mountainous terrains and through forests of haunting whilst other women struggled with a hairpin.
She, with her battle scars had my heart amongst the maiden beauties. I wanted to eat her pain, lick her wounds, balm her in comprehension because no one else could digest her.
I have a stomach for those kinds of women.