It’s just a dress

I shower, lather myself in smell good shower gel, wash the stress and hurt I carry around with me daily away. I carefully pick my outfit, tighten my bra straps to benefit from the pick up of a lady’s blessing and curse of the bosom. I blow dry my hair, taking care to make every strand look perfectly natural…

I painstakingly paint my face to mask the pressure I am under. I meticulously morph with every stroke of my brush, with every blush and liner and picturesque pick of lipstick to perk up my pretty face.

I slip into my stockings, do up my zip on the little black dress that hugs the vivacious voluptuous curves I contour in the gym all week. My shirt shimmys over my shoulders and my jacket frames the picture so perfectly. I bend down, adjust the buckle of my boots and as I straighten myself up and out, I stare at the mirror.

Perfect picture of pretty.

Perfect disguise. Normal, no different from every girl. No more sexy or special that expected. No less awesome than averred.

And then I take a deep breath, hold my head up high and walk into the room with the confidence of a phenomenal woman, of a woman you can like, even love, for the wonders she withholds with a gracious smile that hides the smouldering tempest you covet with every lingering glance.

But at midnight, not so different from the fairy tale stories we are taught as kids, I come home. I take off my boots, loosely tie my hair up, wash my face, brush my teeth and put on my flannel check pajamas. I could be happy. I know I could be. I have to believe that.

But if you cannot see my naked soul when I’m plain and uncluttered by the complications of what you perceive me to be. If you cannot appreciate who I am when I am nothing grand to show off… Then you can not expect me to love you back. Because the me that sits here completely undone from the bounds of conventional beauty… She is the true beauty of me. She is the brain and the business. She is the one that makes the outer beauty shine with depth and meaning. For what is a pretty dress if it is not filled with an equally pretty soul? It might as well never have left the rack. It is a show piece. Something pretty to put on your mantel. A prize to be possessed, not a person to be proud of.

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