A table for my vanity, full of unnatural products
To create the natural look.
People look with wonder and righteousness
To then tell me I’m vain
When I’ve grown up in a world that has only taught
Me how to be self-obsessed.
They tell me I would be prettier without all the make up
Yet the word beautiful
Has only been uttered to my Mac lined face.
The me who’s liked.
I’ve poked my eyes, I’ve poked my soul, heart and mind
And kohl black bleeds out.
They’ve caught staring at the mirror again, at the mirror
Never my face.
As I’m imagining violent release and smashed glass
With no perfect lines or curves, as I could never be like that.
So frequently displayed people begin to think they’re real.
Sometimes, even me.