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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



This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/.

DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.