should it be ironic that the prettiest she’s felt in months has been in the aftermath of a 17hr work day? makeup smudged, wife-beater and hoody adorned… booty shorts resting low on her hips? she’s come to realize that in the 27th floor haven that’s now become home there is no pretense. there is no judgement. there is only hard work and the sleepless nights that brought her there. beauty is not marked but the lack of markings, rather by the scars hidden cleverly enough no one ever knew they were there.