My egoism is a front

Maybe I will be confident when I can afford weave that goes down to my ass.

Maybe I will be confident when I can do my makeup perfectly,

lay my edges, or style a lacefront.

Maybe I will be confident when I look more like her.

That girl who I adore,

who looks as if she has never

known years of shitty perms and frizz.

Or of clamped up mascara, or of runny eyeliner, or of poorly blended foundation

or of teenage insecurity.

Maybe I will be confident if I brag enough.

If I flaunt all I have to offer,

even if I know it's worthless.

Maybe I will be confident when the clothes arrive.

This time, surely I will welcome the staring eyes.

Maybe I will be confident when the carefree character in my head

becomes a real person.

That girl who I long to be,

who looks as if she has never known years of

biting her tongue,

or holding her breath,

or settling for the boy,

or procrastinating even when the task is one she enjoys doing.

But she has known years of this.

And perhaps knowing years of this is what makes her so confident

Maybe I will be confident when I address her in first person

rather than third.