Picture Me

As if I am not mocked enough by the hair aisle boasting of gleaming brushes, hairties and metal flowers that will ruin my hair. As if the 60 dollar perm and straighten that will never last long enough and the lipstick and fake lashes will do me any good, as if any of that will elicit something lasting from your lips, who am I kidding? To you, I will never be beautiful. Just another cheap frolic tucked away in your wallet, behind your receipts waiting to get thrown away. I will never be recorded. I will be thrown away because I am still invisible: your black shadow that you can’t quite get away from. Instead, you keep me locked behind closed doors: nestled in the folds of your sheets and sighs of your bedsprings. My pride is linked to the picture of a celebrity you keep on your door. Her, the phantom one: photoshopped full of flawless white skin, I will never compete with Emma Watson. I was born in the darkness, to a mother that smelled like cigarette smoke and battle-scars, and you tell me that she is a perfect 12, over and over again. When I know that I will never be more than a 4, and you hold me close and whisper that I’m intelligent while staring at her. I wonder if the hands you are holding me in, commit sins at night while thinking of her… As if I am not mocked yet enough, by the constant stares and glares about my hair/body/weight/figure, you dare to tell me that you care. Hah. I may be a lot of things, but I will never be your fool.