I skim through beauties on a page,
things I wish and will never be.
I starve to fit the media's measure;
a finger down a throat,
beauty slipping from cracked lips.
I sew my mouth shut to the combustion
of words that consume, that speak of the
truth
only to keep the fallacy of what is deemed as
honesty.
I glance at the distorted mirror of what is
perceived as I
and wish, hope and pray that somehow
I was a child again.
A child, yes, a child.
Innocent and blind to the world of mass production,
of copies of a clone
of beauty in a syringe
of love expressed in a text
of segregated batches
of disintegrated aspirations.
I am vexed and complex and I
wish that you would stop looking at the depiction
that my skin might pose
and start analyzing my prose.
Because behind the metaphors of what you suppose
that I expose is the real voice.
And so for the sake of these words that need
articulation,
I'll wear this mask nevermore,
I'll break the glass and although I might
wound myself on the shards of derogatory apprehension
I won't subject to your humiliation.
Because I will not stand to simply capitulate much longer
for you to continue with the scaling of what you
reckon I am worth.
Know that I am unquantifiable, I am priceless
and you can't afford what I have lost.
Yes, I do not fit in the scale of your measure.
Beauty is not about comparison and resentment
but appreciation of the variations.
I am not a number
and I am certainly not another puppet.
And I will stand for this no longer.