InstaGloom


So tell me, are you as happy and free as you pretend to be?

Bright colors, sultry poses, and your boney, emaciated arms around your “besties”.

Skin stained by self tanner faces the camera,

But on the other side of your arm are the slices you made

When you decided a knife in your flesh would hurt much less

Than the knife that was already in your heart.

A snapshot hot tubbing in your New York condo,

Your almost perfect body sunbathing on the beach.

I’m haunted by the images of your backpacking trip through the Swiss Alps

With your adorable new puppy,

Oh, how envious I am.

Do you really believe that a double, triple, or even quadruple tap means that people like you?

That’s where you went wrong

because they only like what you pretend to be.

We all know your smooth skin and plump lips,

Your beautifully painted eyebrows

I could recite your last tweet better than I could my own name.

But I haven’t the slightest clue of your essence, your true worth;

Your pain.

And as you hide those nasty scars on your arms, turning them away from the camera

While you wince so much that it looks like you're smiling,

You're hiding the meals you skipped as well.

If you actually washed off your makeup for once, we’d see that you have tattooed on your forehead in black ink “NOT PRETTY ENOUGH.”

Show me your pain.

Tell me how much your tears sting as they pour over the brims of your eyelids and you watch them fall until they splash on your shoes.

Show me what you have endured that is worthy of my love; of my respect.

Because I’m afraid the Swiss Alps won’t cut it dear

I’m afraid that your push up bra is the last thing holding you together.

I’m afraid you haven’t shared with me anything worth my time

Or yours, for that matter.

Honey, we are hungry. We are starving

And we are craving more than just your Instagram feed.

So, enough pictures, so many I’ve seen

Trying to look twenty when you’re only sixteen.

Maybe one day, you’ll have the confidence of a queen

And ditch the tight dresses for your favorite old jeans,

But that day will not come until you have seen;

Beauty does not shine

Through the sheen of a screen.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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