until you lost your mind and fucked-up your face forever,
when there was nothing wrong with it in the first place.
You were always a nervous wreck,
vibrating and gyrating at such a high pitch
only certain animals could hear it.
All the men were too dumb for you,
dragging their knuckles on the pavement while their tongues lolled out;
you loved them this way,
but only obsessed over the highly critical ones,
the ones you could never please.
I was invisible beside you,
quiet and observing,
equally mesmerized by your beauty and power,
your wit and intelligence
and your tendency to jump into the deep end dragging everyone with you.
The first day I met you,
you climbed a ladder on the side of a Los Angeles building
wearing pink high heels while balancing a cocktail in one hand — be still, my heart!
I was just as stricken as those dumb apes
(including my boyfriend)
by your charms.
When I found out you could make me laugh,
there was no turning back.
You inspired me to think Big
and burst at my own seams with the wholeness of me.
But when you lost your face,
you lost everything.
Not because you were no longer beautiful,
but because your heart dried up like a raisin
inside an empty husk.
Everything vanished
when the appeal of your own selfies disappeared,
because your image was the core
upon which everything was based.
What was the point of doing anything,
since your own reflection no longer inspired you
but endlessly disappointed you from here to eternity?
You still had your words
but they stopped.
You still had your art
but it stopped.
You still had your songs
but you stopped.
Everything died with your new unimproved face.
My dreams grew bigger and more pronounced
consistently unaffected by my own face,
accustomed to being ancillary.
You are a ghost somewhere,
though still alive,
tormented by vanity and regret,
the only things ever capable of silencing you.
I forge on,
not as beautiful...never as beautiful,
but mostly complete.
