the reflection continuously taunts me, stretching and skewing from every fastened point. the beauty holds true in others eyes, I suppose, or so they say. be that the case, why are these eyes, the windows to my soul, so clouded and glazed by false accusations? The truth seems clear on paper, written in it's perfected calligraphy, dancing across the page; "beauty is of the soul, not the skin, for the skin ages and withers but the soul holds true to itself." oh how these words can be read and comprehended, but upon returning to that reflection, the script decays and no longer seems real.
KJC
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