Venus de Milo

I hate the feeling of lip gloss.

The grainy, sticky ooze dyed synthetic pinks and reds,

The corn syrup consistency smacks when I speak—

So I keep my mouth shut.

I cringe to apply mascara, this thick gunk

That turns my soft lashes to dark rigid twigs,

The globs between them that stick and pull when I blink—

So I keep my eyes closed.

I struggle to squeeze into the jeans that all seem to come

In the size “extra-extra tight”, denim boa constrictors

That cut off my circulation when I bend my knee—

So I sit still.

I am this statue, silent and frozen,

And apparently,

That makes me beautiful.