She is the kind of beauty that gently falls on your lips like snowflakes softly falling to the ground, silent, subtle, fragile to touch, but beautiful nonetheless. She is made of winter, thunderstorms, and scars, yet she possesses the gentlest touch for the broken souls. When you meet her, you probably won’t notice her right away, for hers is the beauty that whispers ever so subtly to your soul, capturing your heart and soul first before entrancing your eyes.
The words curled around her tongue
vanishing before she gets a taste of it
Her hands are inked with sentences
Her stomach are filled with phrases unknown
Every bit of her skin
Are marked with ancient lines
Four lines, five lines, six lines
And she lost count of the others on her back
They called it stanzas
From the World Before
When words were freely written and spoken
On things called books and papers
With an ink that must be the same
As the one inscribed on her soul.
She is an obscenity
A walking contradiction
A curse in the post human language era
As she bears all the words and languages of the world
So that all can see through her
The beauty that words can make
(Yet none can read nor understand)
Even though none can read nor understand.
She wears her soul on her skin.
Still, no one can read her.
– – –
I’ve been gone for many weeks! Finally, here’s my entry for #FWF Free Write Friday: O me!, O life!
She loves the smell of old books, the way it has a power to transport her back in time. She loves running her fingers through its ancient pages, hoping it may whisper to her the forgotten secrets of the universe.
She loves looking at the stars at night, when the sky is clear and the moon is shining full and bright. It makes her believe that magic is within her grasp and miracles are within every shooting star.
She believes in fairies and dragons, and angels most of all. It fascinates her endlessly giving colors and curves to the squares and straight lines of this material world.
Yet not be mistaken. She isn’t all sweetness and pink frosting, for she’s nowhere near.
Every night, she gets nightmares and she ends up waking at the middle with tears-stained pillow, with death in her eyes, and curses of tragedy in her words.
She knows that light and darkness are created hand in hand. That demons exist as much as angels do. She knows darkness tangibility in and out like the lines of her palm, she even kissed it passionately at centuries past, yet this does not stop her to be afraid.
When you see her, she’ll be looking straight in your eye, unwavering and searching. And you will wonder what she is made of. Is it light or darkness? Is it a fairy godmother’s wish or a witch’s curse? A pixie’s dust or a mortal’s ash? An angel’s breath or a demon’s fury?
Every time you think of her, you will wonder. But you will never quite grasp the answer.
But by this, you will know it’s her.
You will know it’s her when you suddenly realize that you’re not looking at her eyes anymore, but you are looking straight through her, and what you see isn’t her but yourself. The best you can possibly be.
She is beautiful, indeed. Otherworldly beautiful.
Inspired by the lovely prompt from #FWF Beautiful People