Call it a natural.

Even though it's not, at all.

It'll be a plagiarized ball of masks and hair.

It'll be what you show your kids,
on your old facebook.

When you thought you were young.
And they'll stare.

At the screen.
And then at you.

You wish you were a better mom.
But all you can do is stare.

And they stare back at you.
Blaming.
Shaming.
And naming you.
The owner.
Of all the bad decisions
you ever did.
And every bad decision you'll ever do.