Thick; damaged; brown hair that fails to cascade down my back and compliments the absence of some breast too small to be considered a rack. Eyes that don’t mesmerize as quickly in reality like they do behind a screen, and not to mention the mascara around them that is always smudged and never clean. Pierced cartilage marks an impression on the bystander, it makes them stop for a while and take a gander; some noted small features become the topic of conversation, and my soon to be peer will leave with nothing but admiration. Yet when we meet again I’ll be given no consideration, because my filter created a barrier that formed false infatuation.
No filter, no filter, no filter is what I need in order to exceed in a world dominated by spurious faces, and nothing but comments trying to reach a timid poster’s good graces. “Is that really you?” “Can I see your thighs?” No one really cares what lies inside of a mind that aspires to be more than just nine-hundred and one likes, but maybe I’ll respond to one of you, maybe I just might. I’m left with no words, only messages that refresh in intervals; and none of them are good, when a good comment comes it will be a miracle.
No filter, no filter, no filter, I see my view with no filter, my thick damaged hair will be familiar even without “Inkwell,” “Hudson,” “Kelvin,” or even “1977.” My blemishes aren’t erased or hidden, they will breathe air and will never be forbidden to enter the world freely as I have, and I mean I have extremely.
Sure, a nice touch up, a nice tweak, a nice cover up will add beauty to my flawed and tampered face. But no filter is needed in order for me to create. I can create with my hands, my mouth, my mind; no filter is needed when my thoughts are more than sublime. I have a brain that can produce an idea, so maybe one day I’ll be seen as less as an Aphrodite, and more like an Athena.