Weaponisation of Beauty
Fearful of this thing called beauty,
Others own it, radiating fierce.
The versions of me that mirrored physical confidence,
were seemingly empty, compensating and struggling to steer...
My own vehicle, the one that God made beautifully for me.
Not more or less than others,
Just one leaf in a bunch, on a bush of poison ivy.
Accidentally harming with kind eyes, a simple touch and a kiss.
Often, a kiss of death to our old selves and now our brightest parts, we miss.
We journey to emerge again, after seeing before seeing.
Underneath, never aligned,
While on top, each other we were needing.
Beauty, a weapon and a tool used in this world more than occasionally,
The Kindest but most wounded of us, can make ourselves up...
To say "stay with me..."
More comfortable in private,
seen when chosen and expressed at will.
No accidental attacks or weaponisation of what the world once taught me was a skill.
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