The Cult of Beauty
I wince as it burns across my face,
Hopefully cleansing it of the impurities
that decidedly reside there.
It stings in my eye.
The eye whose natural beauty
Can only be enhanced
With thick, bold lines
That criss-cross the contours of your face.
From the moment you picked up that powder.
Or for some, maybe mascara,
Or eyeliner,
blush,
It has been like this.
Unwittingly inducted into the
Cult of beauty.
And it matters not, the feelings inside of this pretty shell;
She is simply a poster board put up for our viewing pleasure.
As we spread the sickly salves
Across our lineament,
And worship the golden skeletons
Who stand at unattainable heights
Of poised elegance,
While we peruse magazines
promising us the secrets of the universe through a flawless complexion,
We can only stay and wonder
Who is it
that looks back at us
From our bathroom mirror?
