I no longer know Beauty

I forget— like how leaves forget their tree once autumn called them free. Moments slip and leave an unsettling void for dreams to flourish. Uninvited, wearing the mask of memory. A fiction sung in earnest, stitched in gray hours— where dreams blend into truth. A hushed whisper: “Beauty is truth,”—but I wouldn’t know if the echoes I call "mine" ever rang— I am built of broken facts, soft edits, and pills that patch up what my mind kindly discards— So I wonder, if beauty is truth— am I still beautiful when the scar I wear is painted.