I smear grease on my cheeks
To make my face work.
I stuff socks in my bra
To make my chest perk.
I squeeze my feet in shoes too small
And balance like a freak.
I stick contacts in my eyes
So I don’t look like a geek.
I kill my hair with chemicals,
Then burn it ‘til it’s straight.
I rarely eat and I run like Hell
To keep from gaining weight.
Perfect isn’t perfect.
There’s always room for more.
Higher standards? Higher facelifts
Ought to settle out the score.
Now that I’m filled with plastic,
And my hair is not my own,
With my face all painted pretty,
Am I beautiful to the bone?
April 30, 2012
Received Understory Literary Journal Best Poem Award
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