I came to you and asked, “What’s wrong?“
But you looked down and said nothing,
so I turned myself to look at the mirror;
I saw a restless face,
full cheeks but without bloom,
a gaze without any hint of hope,
red lips but eyes in gloom.
I feel troubled, you don’t call me beautiful anymore.
You don’t call me beautiful anymore
as though the syllables have vanished in your vocabulary
as though the definition has been deleted from your memory
as though you’re silently proclaiming I no longer have the beauty.
They call me pretty.
They say I’m lovely.
But what anyone else has to say doesn’t matter.
You know why?
Because you don’t call me beautiful anymore.