I don't think I was created
For public consumption
But I draw blood red lipstick on anyway
Do I look OK?

The joy I feel
cannot be captured
in a pixilated square
But my lipstick is there

The pain I live with
Should not be ignored,
or worse,
exploited,
for the approval
of a judgmental public

My body doesn't need a filter
It is creased and warm
It is vibrant, it is alive
And no photograph in the world
Can convey who I am

But still - we are slaves
to anonymous approval
Do I look OK?

Am I even in love
if he's not on brand?
He can move my entire earth
with a hand on my thigh,
but what's a soul on fire
without the approval of the faceless mass,
yay-ing or nay-ing,
as they claw at their screens?

I need to know
Do we look OK?