I knew she was bad news the first time I laid eyes on her. There she was in the little reggae haunt in the islands, whirling and swirling, drawing all eyes to her bounteous rounded body, lost in her own world with eyes closed in the heat of the moment. She never stopped dancing, virtually thrusting her body out for all to see, going from man to man in her frenzy. It wasn’t that she was beautiful since her face was slightly off kilter, her body was lusher than the slender norm and she didn’t create the impression that she belonged to the real earth. She had all the earmarks of being slightly disoriented as if she were not of this world but the cosmos was of her, trying valiantly to please her.

I was mesmerized as I watched her white teeth with their slight overbite, latched wantonly onto her sensuous full red pouted lips, promising rapture. Her coffee with cream skin took the spotlight in the dimly lit bar as I realized that she was an amalgam of many races making it difficult to determine her heritage. Green slanted flirtatious eyes showed glints of yellows and browns. Wild curly hair with auburn flecks floated around her, hanging to her waist. Globular breasts peeped from her blouse that was only partially buttoned, having come undone as her spirit kicked its heels to the sound of the band.

I was so drawn to her fire that I knew that I had to have her in my life even when a little nagging murmur at the back of my skull warned me to ignore her magnetism. Alas, the pull of her hypnotic embodiment was too much to resist as I strolled in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner toward her, trying to disguise my eagerness to become one with her.

She turned her voluptuous body toward me and said that she had felt the charisma of my presence from her vantage point but that there were a few things I had to give the green light to if I wanted to play the game with her. “You cannot tame me for I am like a wild bird. I am my own person and come and go as I please,” she mouthed in her animalistic manner.

Against my better judgment, I reluctantly agreed to her terms. She grabbed my hand, led me to her motorcycle parked outside the bar and we roared off into the dark and promising night. As we entered her cozy little apartment above a noisy restaurant, I was enveloped so fully by her aura that outside sounds ceased completely as we gave ourselves to each other with complete abandon.

She threw her clothes off where they landed on the brightly hued carpet. I grabbed her naked body and began caressing and savoring every inch of her charms before unzipping my pants and throwing her onto the rug where we ravished and consumed, crested and fell, over and over, until we were sweating and exhausted. Falling asleep for a little while, we awoke to blooming urgency, the like of which I had never known. This desperate need continued through the balance of the night before we fell into a deep slumber. I awakened with the knowledge that I could never be without her again.

In the month ahead, our climatic passion continued but I woefully noticed that she would absent herself from me from time to time. “I need my space,” she said, “you don’t control me.” For a while, I accepted what she was willing to give me because I was so engrossed in the gifts she was bestowing upon me as I became needy. I had to have her and if that took sacrifices on my part, so be it. I ignored the fact that I was becoming less of a man. When she snatched herself away from me, images of her filled my existence as I became more and more dependent on her benevolent donations. I tried to avoid seeing her casting her glances at other men, negating my suspicions as to what she was doing in her absences.

A few days later, she tore off on her motorcycle leaving me alone to wander down to the soft comfort of the beach, where I daydreamed about her bounty. Returning a little early from my soothing sojourn, I was shocked to hear moans and groans coming from her abode. Flinging open the hurt door of my love, I was confronted by her and another man in our promised bed.

Embarrassment was absent in her demeanor as she said, “I never promised you that I would be faithful. Would you like to join in?”

Devastated, I limped sorrowfully out of our little love nest, catching the next plane to leave the islands of my dreams and jetted back to the emptiness of my life on the mainland. Try as I might, I could not put my little island maiden out of my mind. When I returned to the islands to seek her out once again, she was gone as was my yearning soul. I never saw her again.

No words ever kept still

Nor promises sought for peace

Save for the endless succession

Of subtlety's sanctuary 

No masks ever hid secrecy

Nor history sewn silent for long

Save for the details blazoned

By our blood burning sun

No silence ever shrouded wisdom

Nor tranquility in madness

Save for euphoria's sinless

Essence never left unwritten

Thus no lie coveted truth

Nor wrought clarity for fools

Save for what words whispered

Memory with seducing sincerity 

Unrivaled by any veracity, that

Spurious phantom ever possessing

Humanity since its first breath

Boundless and beyond death's

Measure and step, mortality's crux

And crook known simply as:

                                                                    "a book".

She was beautiful but no body saw her because she hid her eyes behind her long dark fringe.  She hated her nose, the way her mouth looked crooked and how everyone always asked her to smile.  Smile Shelley, you always look so depressed.   Smile Shelley, you look different when you smile.     Why do people say things that make you withdraw more into yourself, when your mind is already telling you that you are a failure anyway.

She had boring grey eyes she thought.  They were like muddy clouds on a brewing storm, indecisive and not passionate enough to become the storm, just muddling around doing not very much.   Quick glances at people were enough for her to see that they weren't interested, that she was boring to them.  Not good enough for a second glance in her mind, an obscurity, a blend in the mass of people in the world.  Unseen. That's how she saw herself.

I never saw her like that.   I saw her as sunlight on a winters day, an echo of a small smile on cupids bow lips.  Elegant nose and slightly flared nostrils when she was passionately talking about things she loved, art and spirituality.  Grey eyes that sparked to silver lights flickering like sunlight on the water, pulling you into her depths and making you feel encompassed by her understanding, one hundred percent of her attention.   The way she flicked back that fringe, graceful sweep of her hand and the tinkling laughter like raindrops on water.   She was beautiful in her understanding, but unseen by herself.  Her own light invisible, she plodded through her substandard life. But she shone, a beacon for those who took the time to see, the beauty in the simplicity of her being.   I wish I could remove those glasses of self loathing she wore, distorting her view of her being, judging and condemning no one else but herself.

I wanted to give her a gift, a gift of seeing herself but until she took those invisible glasses off, she was doomed to never see her own beauty, the shine of her heart light and the pull of her soul.   Oh, open your eyes Shelley, for the world is blessed by your presence and heart, gorgeous grey eyes and a hint of smile.   Stop hiding your light under a bushel of judgement or forever be lost in a darkening world through your own eyes.

She was beautiful but no body saw her because she lost herself in a place where acceptance and love dies a lonely death.

This post may sound conceited in the beginning; I understand and fully acknowledge this beforehand. However, if you are reading this, you either follow me and know what I truly think about myself or you are going through my feeble works, trying to decide if what I have put out into the world has value. (How’s that for a self-deprecating statement? Because, trust me, I do it ALL the time!)

As I look at the profile picture I currently have set up on this website, I can see a few things that people have pointed out to me that are positive attributes. I do have relatively clear skin. I do have full lips. And my eyes are piercing. It does appear as though I’m looking right at you…even when I look at it, I get creeped out because my stare is intense.

I'll admit I believe my eyes are my best physical attribute. Unfortunately, (in my opinion) because I took this picture in Sepia tone, you cannot truly tell what color they are. They are blue, and my mood will reflect the shade. If I'm content or relaxed, they are a pale, almost ice-blue. If they are dark and stormy, I'm either very emotional, or under the influence of a substance. The makeup is just and accent. I rarely wear it because I'm too lazy to apply, and this particular day, I let my teenage daughters make me over.

Most people don’t have an issue with this picture. In fact, I’ve gotten a lot of positive responses on it. It shocked the hell out of me, simply because I just don't see it.

But…because I am who I am, I MUST critique myself; beat myself down so that I don’t get too comfortable, cocky, or confident.

I am about to break down for you what is wrong with this picture in MY eyes. For reference, when I say left and right, I am speaking in regards to true left and right, not the mirror image that the photo represents. The reason I do this will give you greater insight into my writings, my emotions, and my general purpose for sharing as a release.

The right side of my face is bigger, and higher in certain spots. Look at my right eye, for starters. It is more wide open. It is also higher set, and the eyebrow higher set and thinner than the left. Of course, the sagging underneath the eye is more obvious. Though my nostrils are close, you can clearly see that the right one comes up slightly more than the left. My right cheek is more pronounced; it looks like I either have a wad of dip (snuff, tobacco, etc. for those of you not from the South) in my right cheek. In addition, my lips are fuller on the right side (although, to be honest, this could be because of the way that I hold my mouth. I hate my teeth; I destroyed them when I battled an eating disorder in my teens and after the birth of my children, so I show them as little as possible when I smile.) Also, when I smirk, my mouth naturally pulls to the left.

If you are reading this and seeing the picture, you are probably shaking your head and saying, “Damn…all that BS from a selfie?” Unfortunately, yes.

All I ask is that you imagine a photo of yourself, then pretend that you have a very low self-esteem and cut your image down the way that a stranger would. This is how I live my life daily. But, I wear a mask of self-confidence because I have two young ladies about to be 16 years old that do not need to feel about themselves and their bodies the way that their Mama does. Do I want or need pity? ABSOLUTELY NOT! I struggle daily to uplift my daughters and make sure they know that their worth is SO much more than their physical appearance; I do NOT want them to make the same mistakes I did solely to be accepted within society. All I ask is acknowledgement and understanding that I feel and think this way, whether you agree or not.

He's always hunted me. I've felt him in shivers upon my skin, thundering heartbeats and nervous butterflies. I'm afraid yet, the knowledge that someone - something - dangerous stalks me is arousing.

I've never seen him, just teases of silhouettes, but he speaks to me; secret words of dark, seductive promises telling me that when I'm ripe, I will be his forever.

He's getting closer. I think tonight is the night. My mind argues stay or go as I stand at my bedroom window, open to the night breeze. My white, lace nightgown flutters wistfully across my skin and auburn curls dance across my face. "Stay," I whisper.

A cold hand gently brushes my shoulder. I gasp. It's time.

"I've waited 21 years for you," a velvet voice murmurs in my ear.

"I've waited for you," I reply shakily, knowing it's true.

I turn to face him. Oh! He is so beautiful I cry. He kisses me and I fall limply into his arms. He rips my nightgown and his teeth find my neck, sinking deep. I sigh. Then something warm and wet presses to my lips. I drink and I am born again. My fate is sealed.

My master must muse amongst the much megalomania,

Making musical mandate mendacity, of the meticulous 

Murmuring of a muttering mostly maintained maniacally,

Mellifluous, meticulous, a maverick much emulated by a 

Monotheistic melancholy mess measuring mightily to miracles.

My master masks morality, cementing mediocre memories to commemoration,

To condemn manners primitive to man, more so more, methinks

Of his marred, maimed, mortal and emotional soul,

Matching the mere malachite gleam, murky mistiness of marine green.

My master mumbles, misfires, must mature his mug manifestations;

My master, a madman mistrusting morning promises to illuminate;

My master, married to matches’ merciless impassioned flames,

My master, my master, my master, my meandering, waning masterpiece.

My master misinforms me of my mistakes, misrepresents

My consuming mania, marking dementia, loving momentum.

Mettle me, my master, don’t misconstrue the munificent,

Magniloquent misanthrope, don’t mammer, mammer, the truth.

Encumbered me to my master, my master to me, imbibing, consuming

Malt marrow, muscle, minds, mouths, metallic mends and markings.

Maculating the once immaculate, monitoring any means of mention,

Imprisoned in the malfunctioning mutiny of our monopolistic marching;

My master manages to move mountains, meek, mellow, and mild as he is,

Macabre machine, madden magistrate, my modest mockingbird,

Minstrel of material matters, malice mediates these moderate

Messages, murderous messenger, manufactured mercenary,

Majestic maven, my embodiment of memorabilia;

My myth, my miracle, musician and muse of my writings.

Month after month, moonlight monuments these marble floors,

Mirroring the milky midnight maudlin mindful state of a

Magnanimous martyr made malleable through maceration.

My master mangles me, I maledict my master, maniacal in this

Misfortune, a masquerade made of mayhem, a meager mirage.

Misfortune, a misalignment misapplied in massive mistime,

Mischievous misfits misguided by us misers of motive,

My master to me, and I to my master, us a mixture of moans and mockery.

My master, my molded momentous moonshine, monstrous morass,

My morbid motto, my mottled music, mysterious myriad of myself,

Multiply this murky mucilage, this murky muddled mouthpiece,

Lips of mourning, mirth mordantly molested.

Monsieur, Monsieur, Monsieur, mollify the monarchism of your monastery,

My miracle, my missionary here to tame me, your miserable misdeal,

Your mischance mistress, misjudged minx miniaturized by your

Microscope, matured by midday, hardened by your Midas touch.

Monsieur, Messiah merged from meritorious merriment,

Messiah of my melancholia, mate of my life, marital touch,

Monsieur has mesmerized me by methodical maxims.

My Magnificat, this mental metastrophe of ours, my methomania,

My master, my marijuana fiend, my master makes me believe.

Monsieur, Monsieur, Monsieur, murmer into me,

My master, my master, my master, and I am his Queen.

Chanlyn woke up, blinking in confusion. She was lying on her side, curled in the foetal position. Her muscles felt stiff & sore, aching like she'd been holding that position for some time. How long have I slept? Loud cracking sounds greeted her as she stretched. Feels like forever. Dazed, she tried to remember last night. Her eyes wandered, searching for clues and found an empty vodka bottle beside her. Shaking her head, she got up and went to the kitchen, frowning as she noticed the dead plants. Then she saw the stain. Then the body - the dead body. She screamed.

She was beautiful, too beautiful for her own good.

So beautiful that nobody saw her suffering.

They all just wanted to admire her.

She was an escape.

Something to be enjoyed.

Nobody wanted to see that she had a heart underneath, a heart that hurt, a heart that was shattered.

She was so beautiful that the broken pieces of glass around her only elevated the price of her beauty.

They made her look like a piece of art instead of a human being who needed to vent, who needed other people too and was not only there to fulfill others' needs.

She was too beautiful.

And she fears she will always be too beautiful.