Each morning my face looks at me,
Some days with sleep still in its eyes.
And, though I like the face I see,
It's time to put on my disguise.
The brown eyelashes become black;
The light pink flesh becomes more brown.
One could say that I have a knack
For keeping my real face unshown.
Why must I hide myself behind
This poreless, hairless, waxen guise?
Why must my body be aligned
To beauty in my culture's eyes?
Instead, I choose to be myself
And put my mask back on the shelf.