Curation

honesty is not a natural human trait

because the world is full of jars with dusty labels

glass ceilings and glass walls

that make half-truths and lies coagulate

 

the pixels on our feeds get curated

every moment a shimmery, filtered declaration of happiness

as our smiles remain rigid on our faces

our makeup perfectly applied

our clothes fluttering just so in the wind

our friends clutching our shoulders and backs

in the very epitome of the height of youth

 

then you meet the real person

whose smiles fall apart like tissue paper

whose makeup is smeared from hours of sprinting through the day

whose clothes cling to fat and bones

whose friends are too tired to do anything more than lay in bed

in the very epitome of the height of youth

 

i am a web of contradictions and complexities

most of which will never be converted into binary code

and i am a master of facade

hiding geometric art-deco lines

scored into folds of flesh

confining sandpaper thoughts and gossamer dreams to the recesses of my mind

to be trotted out if and only if it all falls apart

 
This poem is about: 
Our world

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