The Perfume of Regret

The bells mock me,

ringing out in delicate chimes,

sounding too much like laughter,

like the clinking of crystal

held between gloved fingers

as I sit here, spine straight,

face powdered into something pretty,

something polished,

something false.

They tell me I am magic,

wrapped in silks and whispers,

a thing gilded and untouchable.

But I know better.

I am the illusion,

the candle melting beneath its own heat,

the ribbon tied too tight around a throat

that only knows how to swallow shame.

The café is full of perfume and quiet judgment.

My cappuccino is untouched,

foam folding in on itself,

a mirror of me.

I hate the way they see me,

or worse—

the way they do not.

I was supposed to be something more.

A creature made of satin and sin,

a woman who steps without apology,

but I feel like a crumpled love letter,

read once and discarded,

words smudged from too many hands.

The ferns outside brush against the window,

scraping like whispers, like ghosts.

They grow without shame,

wild things that do not ask for approval,

that do not shrink beneath a gaze.

I envy them.

I sip my drink,

and the bitterness coats my tongue.

A taste like regret, like something spoiled.

I should leave,

should let the bells ring behind me,

let them say whatever they wish—

but my hands stay folded,

my lips remain red,

my dress still clings like expectation.

And I am still here,

drowning in my own reflection.