They would always stare, without care for consequence. The consequence was her shame. Blessed she was by looks so fine; barely a set of eyes could avoid locking upon her delicate features. Her cheekbones were a gateway to phenomena unimaginable to all, like the sand dunes that hide the oasis from the dying desert man. Beyond them lay her eyes, rivalled only by the sun for brilliance, they would watch you, regardless of in which direction they pointed. They were poetry, without a misplaced word or stanza astray; all the forces of beauty had collided in a crucible of fragile precision. Her eyes were a sight more than they could see. Her lips were a plush world of wonder; an amusement park of whimsical merriment; a jamboree of immeasurable possibilities. Somewhere in between rested the perfect nose, dainty and fragile, like a folded up fairy had set up camp and never wanted to leave. Her skin was liquid silk poured upon a sunset horizon. Flaws would flounder, none could flourish, banished to a nowhere realm somewhere between never and then. She was as the devil would dare show himself; she was perfect. Her innocence forever trapped inside her flawless physicality. How can one be honest with the world while sporting a face that could melt oceans? How can the world ever be honest with her?
Seen by most to be a blessing, through her looks, in misery she walks the streets. For a moment of privacy, she longs more than the desert for rain. No eyes simply pass by. They all check in for a stay, offering no compensation for the time they spend or the resources they use. They wring her almost dry, then hang her up, the pegs leaving painful smears in her poise, before she is torn down by the next person in line. They stare, they glare, they gape, they gawk, the follow, they inspect, they intrude, they stalk. Never has she seen a man or woman pass her by without feeling their gaze permanently embedded into her skin, her heart, her soul. Insecure, she is not. She acknowledges the reason for their persistent invasions, but for every pair of eyes that comes to rest upon her face, part of her beauty is corroded. It can only be appreciated for so long before it’s devoured. Every gaze is like an explosion of fire, burning from her the very thing that had sparked the gaze.
Doused only in the perfection with which she was cursed, ablaze, she walks the streets. Her beauty, a force of scorching self-destruction, only draws more attention. Each new pair of eyes unwittingly drenches her with more fuel with which to burn, until she lays a smouldering wreck upon the rostrum of age, withered by her own beauty and how much everyone else loved it.
