It’s been a year since the purchase–

rugged cloth over a thick hard cover, red patterns carefully stamped onto the fabric.

I bought a book simply because it looked beautiful.

Its contents, however,

remain unlearned, unexplored.

Collecting dust while the red ink dulls,

a fear lingers and I find myself paralyzed–

unable to hold it, let alone flip through its pages.

Although, I now realize that it wasn’t just the book.

It was the perfectly decorated pastry

that I hesitated to bite into

It was the butterfly on my shoulder

that I trembled holding my breath for

It was the expensive perfume

that I refused to wear without good reason

It was the outfit in my closet

waiting to be worn on a day of importance

Beauty doesn’t scare, it intimidates. 

The mind turns void while the heart bows under the weight of its presence.

We are scared not of Beauty, but our ability to taint her in our clumsy human nature,

so we quiver; we hesitate and we admire from afar, waiting for beauty to come to us.

Little do we know, Beauty is generous in spirit once you get to know her.

She’ll leave mementos of herself with you as long as you remember to knock on her door; 

a souvenir to remember what she was like.

So here my book lies, open in my lap, as I converse with Beauty through its pages,

the red cover inkstaining my hands and memory alike.