Her beauty's fading away.

Slowly but surely—

with every passing second, how fiercely gentle.

The butterfly cries in pain.

She uses makeup to hide her wrinkled skin,

the cluster of freckles and cloudy eye bags—

she doesn't want anyone to know that her once viciously alive

was decaying like rushed joy.

The peach foundation fills the wide cracks of her broken days;

a strong odor of starved pleasure.

The dark brown mascara hits her wet eyelashes in mid-blue light

like waves crashing upon numb feet,

at exactly 2:09 a.m.;

her toxic tears are burning the holes in their hearts.

The wings of her eyes are drawn with eyeliner,

how smooth and sharp;

the hatred tattooed on her pink skin for this world.

Berry lipstick over her chapped lips,

and the sheer gloss shushing the stories

of dead evenings beneath torn blankets, never born;

the faceless lies over corpses like poison.

She uses heavy makeup to conceal herself from this world and the truth —

her beauty's long gone.

Her youthful exuberance and wishes are dead now.

The butterfly's wings are burnt golden ashes.

She's too young for this world,

and too sad for her good.

She's a star-crossed creation that ruined everything.