As far as beasts go
Well, so what if she was beautiful?
They’ll tell you. In movies and stories and just real life. You’ll hear stories about people who went through horrible things. Not that windows and glass walls are horrible, just the going bit. Going through things you’re not meant to. Kinda like in life. Accidents and gnarly bike rides.
They’ll always preface it by saying — and she was so beautiful. Before. She isn’t. Now. It’s understood you’re no longer beautiful once there’s scars all over your body.
I never got that.
I know people out here will spin it like there’s angel-dust pooling inside their scars. Poets. Except I don’t mean it like that. I don’t think it’s how the light gets in, and I don’t think my scars are particularly deserving of odes, sonnets, all that song and dance.
My scars don’t got magic in them. It’s just scar tissue. And that’s mostly just skin, right?
This isn’t poetry, ’cause poetry doesn’t work in real life. Not the way we intend it to. I’m a clumsy make-believe girl who walks into walls in the hope that someday she might walk through. Hasn’t happened so far, but I’ve got scars by which I can keep track of attempts.
Thus far, we’re on 17. Not all of them are walls, though. Some are things a little too hot touched for a…
