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.