talescelestia
Beauty is a flame-warm enough to draw every gaze, yet merciless enough to burn the one who tends it. It glows softly at first, harmless, like the flicker of a candle in a quiet room. But flames are greedy; they want more. They ask for polish, for shimmer, for perfection. They demand the hair brushed smooth until it shines like silk, the lips glossed until they glimmer like glass, the skin powdered until no blemish dares to breathe.
And when the flame grows brighter, so too does its hunger. Mirrors cease to be mere glass; they turn into altars. Each glance becomes a prayer, each touch of mascara or sweep of blush a devotion to an ideal too fragile to hold. Perfection becomes not a dream, but a prison, where every smudge feels like failure, every stray hair like betrayal.
The world will look on and marvel, whispering she's angelic, she's flawless, she's everything. Yet beauty has its cost, and the one who feeds its flame is always the first to burn.