I look pretty today,

and I hate it.

The sour leftovers
of mascara still cling to my eyelashes,
nostalgia clutching them along for the ride,
so I don't wash it off
until the memories peel my skin away
and gnaw through my heart,
clinging to my leftover lashes.
Yesterday becomes nostalgia's playground.
Every time it hops from one monkey bar
to the next
a little piece of me slips away.

Fever climbs the playground's ladders,
one-hundred three,
one-hundred four,
one-hundred five.
One-hundred five point nine.
I wake up with the blankets torn away
ungratefully, sprawled out
in a heap of sweat.
The shivers are knocking at the door.
My cheeks are rosy
because I am burning up, burning down,
burning all around.

Mascara memories encircle
my lifeless eyes.
My cheeks grow rosy and red
as a tremor rolls down my spine.
Because I look pretty today, but
With beauty comes pain, they say.
With beauty comes pain.
So all I can do
is drown into the layers of my bed
and whisper a poem to myself
that no one will ever read.
I wonder if I will ever muster the courage
to write it down.

I look pretty today,
and I hate it.