Insecure

He tells me I am beautiful,

but I'm not inclined to believe,

when weighty bags underline the eyes

that he says sparkle in the night,

a purple hue on pallid skin,

sagging, sad and tired.

And though porcelain is the skin he kisses,

it is scuffed by red, my spots of sin,

from where self-care took the backseat,

those scars that forever linger,

where the lipstick won't look pretty

until the whole canvas is painted,

obscured, hidden secrets,

only a fools touch away.

And as his arms encircle my waist,

I can only feel his hands,

those gentle fingers resting

atop the figure I could not save,

once praised, until indulgence

triumphed strictness,

and the proof of the pudding

never sits quite where you wish it would.

Nor the legs he praises,

no sir, they are not statuesque or trim,

they are a nuisance, forever transforming

from once soft to a beastly burden,

the moon takes quite its toll,

ticking by each day until

a razors touch become imperative,

a razors burn stings, calling forth

blood beads, these practised hands

still carving mistakes.

He tells me I am beautiful,

but I am not inclined to believe,

not in this natural state,

not in the way life has left its mark;

I am forever in-progress, battling

against what's intended,

for a few hours of ignorance,

never blissful.