Sonata Pathétique

I am always a disappointment, I'm afraid. I speak clearly of beautiful people, eyes flashing across dinner tables and concert halls. I am not even the same species, sleeves too short, skin too blemished. Not even my sorrows are original, copied from my betters. There will never be a man who gasps to see me in cobalt silk, skin like cream and bisque. Eyes will always slide over me, judging correctly what I have to offer and oh, it always falls short. How I laugh loudest, never last, cheap pantyhose unraveling beneath stapled hems.

"You are nothing; you have nothing."