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Wind whispers through
her spiderweb soul, fragile-seeming
but hard to destroy;
inner strength like steel
fortifies her

Her flawless flaws
are always concealed behind
high-end maquillage

Body and face are her canvas;
when one cannot draw, or paint,
one fashions themselves
into their own work of art
and pretends she doesn't fall asleep
on a tear-stained silk pillowcase
each night

Glossy chocolate hair, ebony lashes,
her willowy statuesque form
tottering on Vivier stilettos
lithe arms with a Sobranie Cocktail
there to stave off the
incessant pangs of hunger
that might mar her quest for

The dermatologist administers peels
to remove layers of aged skin
like making rings on a tree disappear;
injections fatten the flesh,
for the face of youth is plump, taut;

It hurts to be beautiful
It hurts so much

with thanks to etouffee

She stares in the mirror,
plucking at her eyebrows.
They're too thick,
too thin
Do they even match her hair?

She pulls and prods at her cheeks,
too pale.
Scrutinizing the discoloration
she got from her mother.
A bitter reminder of imperfection
instead of a constant presence
of her greatest role model.

Her lips are too thick,
Her lashes too short and sparse.
Is that a new outbreak of blemishes
across her forehead?


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