Does it look like I have perfection written across my body?
Etched by the conforming hand of society
Letting the ink
Seep through my pores
Absorb into my brain,
Which now sends ink poisoned messages to my hollow eyes
As they stare entranced by the magazine that lays in front of me,
Filled with the sparkling blandness of what’s already been done before.
Figure after figure after figure of perfection?
Decided upon by a higher and unknown power?
Who speaks idiomatically with no need for explanation.
Society must have got a hold of this too,
With its firm grip and twisted fingers.
And with my firm grip and twisted stomach I take it in,
Try to mirror the image,
Except when my eyes trace the glass
I never see it
It’s never there.
No.
I have perfection written across my body.
Etched by the unmatched hand of me
Letting the ink
Seep through my pores
Absorb into my brain,
Which now sends reviving messages to my sparkling eyes
As they stare entranced by the life that lays in front of me.