The High Priestess

Beauty is in the eyes of who?

She was exactly who she wanted to be. She knew who she was from the cradle; vague ideas of values that only solidified with age the same way that a river carves deeper through stone aided only with time and a lack of change.

The bones of the Priestess were carved in an eerily similar way.

She heard the whispers of everyone around her- claiming that her head was held up higher than the moon in the sky, but how could she help it when she was looking for the perfect star? Where else, she wondered, would she find the perfection she craved to be alongside her for the rest of her days?

She was desired in every way known to man, but the fear most familiar to her was looking back years down the line and realizing that she had settled on something less than ideal, less than perfect.

So here she sat, her back aching from the uncomfortably hard seat of the moon she had managed to reach looking out over the sea of faces belonging to everyone who had ever even looked in her direction; searching for a spark that would light both her heart and mind ablaze. She continued to clutch her notes made in perfect handwriting, meticulously detailing what she needed.

No, what she wanted.  

So she sat still with her dress laying perfectly across her thighs, plain white stockings wrapped around porcelain knees and MaryJane's that danged precariously over the edge of the moon made of moss. Rich dark hair fell over her shoulders in waves that would make the ocean jealous and framed her face in a way that could only be described as picturesque to anyone who allowed themselves to openly stare.

She sat still and waited for someone to finally come along ready to see her, actually see her heart that yearned for the warmth of imperfection that could be easily embraced.

She was beyond confident in who she was and what she represented. 

She wasn't waiting for a missing jigsaw piece, she was searching for a frame that would hold the puzzle in place.