The Look

My eyes, black, bold, bore holes in your soul.

My lips, a raspberry shade of promise.

Hair, falls in curls, or frizzes into a halo.

Skin soft, like a baby's.

Cheeks, retaining juvenile chub, despite the spider's webs forming round my eyes as I smile.

Blemishes come and go, with my volatile nature.

Breasts were never pert,

Belly scarred by energetic, intolerant babies,

As surly in utero as their teenage selves.

Waist like an hour glass, hips broad.

Legs proportionately long, or torso short?

Butt fleshy...

Funny what is so attractive to the male is an anathema to the female...

Am I beautiful?

I scan the mirror searching...

...searching for the evidence of people's words.

Are they seeing my physical self or my soul?

Why do they seek to flatter?

Is the confusion caused by my tumultuous heart, by my hyperactive brain, by my over zealous urge to understand and please...

Or by my look, my looking,

My searching deeper, penetrating your very essence?

But I cannot do otherwise.

I dress, bejewel, augment.

I smile at the caricature of my natural self, giggling a little at the transformation.

Not that anyone has ever been fooled, and nor have I.

So strength and a certain look,

Depth and a promise to run the course

Unrelenting pursuit of passions

And discomfiting eyes.

Is it a monster I've created?

I sit back, sipping coffee, or wine

Or rum, tequila or vodka...

I feel as people come in and out of my energy sphere,

Vibrating with me, perfectly in tune for a moment, a while, a time...

Until the harmony abruptly ends, the discordant chords begin to clash

The fragile ethereal skin of the bubble stretches, then bursts...

or disintegrates with the brief brush of a lit cigarette...