Her Moissanite
A brilliant smile with sparkling teeth
Hairspray has hardened her curls
They are immovable, glistening, like her eyes
which shimmer
Teardrops trail like diamonds
She turns
Her mother’s lips are painted rubies
They stretch into a crimson curve
It’s time.
Her skirts float around her
like glittering foam as she moves
She likes him like she likes the comfort of her bed
His warm and earthy presence
His steady gaze
And isn’t that enough?
She looks at her phone, at the picture of the previous one
grinning up at her with hematite-grey eyes
and sighs
Her love is
not a diamond after all, but still as hard as moissanite
Less costly but almost as strong
With just as many facets
She knows this is better.
Diamonds are a marketing ploy to prey on the romantics –
Bought in blood that stains their shine
They are not so rare after all.