The Least Touch of Truth

What is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of. — George Gordon, Lord Byron

Her cheeks are hollow, like the bad man told us,
And her heart is empty, like the space between
The planets or the stars, but neither clean
Nor sweet-scented. She touched our hand, cajoled us
In that soporific voice that sold us
Dreams, sheer fictions with a dark, smooth sheen
And promises of love that she can’t mean,
But still those eyes without emotion hold us.

Fixating grimly on those hollow cheeks
In order to avoid turning to stone,
We think about our worst fears, which have grown
Into a darker mass, rising to peaks
Of horror when she laughs, and sighs, and speaks,
Because we’re terrified to be alone.