Beauty: A response.

It's true that they fall in love with an idea. An ideal. An aesthetic. A concept.... How can I be amazing to you? See how you call me beautiful before you call me amazing? You are amazed by my beauty and I am bored of it. It's all you really notice.

"I want to kiss you every time you say something intelligent." "Surely, your mind is a valid tool..." I hear all of these things despite the muffling effect of the walls of your subconcious.

I'm a bitch sometimes. I'm abrasive and confronting and my mind is full. My eyes absorb and I calculate. But your perception of who I am is convoluted and you only think you know WHAT I am. A fortunate assembly of features. A well proportioned fantasy. You think I'm real because you detect sound and warmth and flavour, but all you know is the superficial sensuality of a husk. You want to pocket the shape of my eyes, to bottle my allure, but you can't learn from these unifaceted gems.

I am a mysterious, exotic specimen with wings of richly hued silk and you've pierced a needle through my skull, attaching me to a board and encasing me in glass so you might admire me at your will and maintain what first captivated you. It is a finite satisfaction for you because pinned here I possess none of the enthralling lightness of the day I first flitted past, my wings catching your eyes. I have no beauty now, not real beauty.

What you think you see is merely a fanciful, self-serving construction of your own fragile, maleable testosterone. Another destructive attempt to own. I need to absorb you and for you to absorb me equally. We should drink thirstily from each other simultaneously.

It's too late now, though, because I am hollow to you. There is nothing left to devour - you removed it just before the puncture, so my beauty - God's cruelest trick - would never decay. It's a sacrifice I believe you made inadvertantly...Nevertheless, it is irreversible.

I hope you aren't terribly thirsty.