Beauty

I used to feel beautiful: Swathed in white lace, bedecked in blue willow patterns, I sank into the wall like an ornament ashamed of its own glory. I grew bored of the shelf, fell onto tables, shattered. And each time, her hand coming down to piece me back together again, with crazy-glue and scotch-tape, each rendition of my form slightly uglier than before, as I became an imitation of a mockery of a rewrite, and the vase's original shape and hue were lost in the veils of adhesives that stung my tongue. I grew to know the contour of each finger, to hate the taste of salt beneath her nails, to bite at the cuticles.

Now I lie on the shelf once more, preening each glistening of jade in the sunlight, ruffling each inch of faience that still shines, longing for the days, when, like a sleepy peacock, I tried to hide my own glory - longing for the days when I still had glory to hide.