pigs

I remember sitting at my vanity and glancing up and down between the image in the mirror and the rows of beautifully packaged cosmetics arranged neatly before me.

I remember wondering “what about my face is so offensive that I wouldn’t dare leave the house without altering it?”

I hear the glossy packages calling my name, knowing full well that they are marketed toward insecure teen girls just like me. I give in anyway.

I don’t pay any mind to the fact that this entity has dictated the image I’ve been projecting to the world since the very moment my mother said I was old enough to wear makeup.

I didn’t know until I knew that it isn’t actually me that dictates who I am, but a capitalist puppeteer that has me tightly bound to my strings.

What is influence but simple mimesis?

Nothing is real and nothing is original.

I can’t fight.

I am here for the taking.