I draw nothing but beautiful faces and figures. My own is showing the signs of age. I was never beautiful, and I defy all those who would tell me otherwise. What I was was pretty. Pretty enough to get by, and certainly photogenic. I’m still photogenic. I can take a nice picture in a decent light and perhaps with a filter. This doesn’t represent my face in life, and it makes me angry that people think it does. Yet my vanity prevents me from posting a true picture. My breasts look alright when strapped up into a bra. My stretchy stomach can be tucked away into high knickers, and I can dress my chubbiness so that it passes for attractive. But the wrinkles and the discoloration show through the makeup now, and the frown lines and puppet lines don’t go away anymore. All I ever had was pretty, and it’s fading. The beautiful youth inherit the earth. The pretty attracts love. Once the love is in place, it’s supposed to outlast the looks. But what if the love gets torn apart once looks have begun to fade? Then you are left watching him succeed whilst you turn slowly invisible. I am subject to despair, I have no hope or self esteem. My personality, at least the aspects that people like and love, is a sham. Once they see through it and know me for what I am then my company is not worth keeping. More and more one hears of how men fall in love with someone because of their beauty. It means that once a woman ages she loses her worth. I am becoming worthless and I despise it.I have no inner beauty to show. I have no talents. Those I do have are mediocre at best. I am too old and too ugly for my chosen profession, no matter how good I may have been at it. I am nothing. I was never anything. I am valueless. Don’t call me beautiful. Don’t call me sexy. It feels like a slap in my face. You are basing it on the past, not the now. And no matter how hard I try to grasp those fleeting years when I felt good about myself, they shoot away from me, ungraspable neutrinos.