She walks up to me curiously,
Head-tilted; her innocent eyes stare into me.
Constellations on her face - I count one, two, three blinks followed by a grin.
A child sees herself for the first time.
Now she’s taller, her face a little broader
she looks into me;
a smile replaced by a frown, she pulls back
inspecting every line that marks her skin
then returns with paint which she brushes over her skin.
It marks her eyes, her lips; her cheeks
full of pink as she admires her work.
The paint never washes off, you see, it stains.
She returns to me regularly, rivers of ink running down her face,
her eyes clouded; the illusion of beauty hangs in the air.
Society’s product stands before me, reflections of her.
-thelostpoetjournals
Apr 16, 2025
Apr 16, 2025 at 1:02 PM UTC
She walks up to me curiously,
Head-tilted; her innocent eyes stare into me.
Constellations on her face - I count one, two, three blinks followed by a grin.
A child sees herself for the first time.
Now she’s taller, her face a little broader
she looks into me;
a smile replaced by a frown, she pulls back
inspecting every line that marks her skin
then returns with paint which she brushes over her skin.
It marks her eyes, her lips; her cheeks
full of pink as she admires her work.
The paint never washes off, you see, it stains.
She returns to me regularly, rivers of ink running down her face,
her eyes clouded; the illusion of beauty hangs in the air.
Society’s product stands before me, reflections of her.
-thelostpoetjournals
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