Porcelain

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The beauty of the smooth, polished white surface.
Milky and pure, like a child's rosy cheeks.
Ornately decorated with innocence and false hope.
How you wear your mask, of little white lies and ego.

But, have you ever noticed,
That little chip in your pristine porcelain?
You probably agonize over it,
Every morning in the mirror.
It will become a crack,
A long deep fissure,
That will push further and further,
Through that ever-so-lovely face of yours.
When that day comes,
You will realize your beauty is only skin deep.





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