Steps To Pain

Nobody wants me. 

After 50 bitter years, there's nothing to show but a list of husbands and regrets. 

So now Cindy SexAppeal gets a myriad of chores just as long, and degrading.  

Why couldn't I be prettier? 

All I have is the money my father left me and my mother's necklace to give me some semblance of a woman. 

Why is his daughter a woman? 

While I stare at the seeds of failure I call my daughters 

Incapable of growing anything but contempt in my heart and a hole in my assets, 

But they're the only things I can call mine. 

I hate that she's what we strive to be. 

The curve of her lip as deep as the cut her father left when he just had to pass, 

He could've loved me. 

The shine in her hair is glossier than any patch of gossamer I could try to cradle my ego in. 

The volume her heart contains far surpasses that of all forty two whisky bottles at my bed side combined. 

I hate her. 

So now, she has to pay for it.  

So now, I'm forced to smear the diamond in the rough. 

To suppress her shine is to magnify the little light left in me 

Maybe my daughters can catch on. 

Self-preservation is a funny thing. 

Maybe if I paint youth on my tired face one last time, I can get what I deserve 

Until then, what's another speck of dust to Perfect Cindy?