Love Rot

By Lemon Sparrow

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What good is all this beauty if you mean for it to rot? I’ve lost count of how many paintings and gossamer hangings I bought you, and all you can do is lay about and admire them, growing fat on your artfully prepared meals.

Just yesterday I came to visit, and was shocked to see how hideous you’ve become. I’ve been gone for a year (I have a life, you know, though you don’t seem to believe me), and you’ve changed so much… Not so long ago you could slip your hand into mine, but now I can’t fit my two around one of yours. I don’t think fatness is the only symptom of whatever disease you have, either, because I can see you’re dissatisfied. Ever since you had your mirrors taken out, claiming they depressed you, you have had more of your beautiful things, and more, and more… and nothing else.

“So Amy… what do you think?” you asked me yesterday, pointing to your newest painting with an attempt at a charming smile. I nodded, exclaimed at the quality, but you didn’t seem satisfied. Nowadays, you never do.

You’ve found that bump in the road, I think, the point where you find out something wasn’t all it seemed to be. Beauty wasn’t supposed to have that fault, but it does, you’ve found, because everything does. Including you. You try to ignore that last fact, hiding yourself in your possessions (among which a mirror is not included), but anyone who sees you can’t say anything else. You’re not beautiful anymore, not even pretty, and your possessions are useless.

Without ugliness to compare them to, your beautiful things have become commonplace, and you know it. You simply don’t know how to fix it (if you can at all).

finis