a girl on my screen, another on the streets.
a girl in my class, another in my house.
each one a carefully arranged patchwork of perfections and flaws,
forming a tapestry that i prefer to my own.
on her head, golden waves of satin;
on my head, copper streaks of straw.
in her eyes, the empyrean fabric of the sky;
in my eyes, one pence coins hidden behind glass.
it's the way her breasts jut out from her chest,
the way her ass arches drastically away from her spine.
it's the way her face glows with artificial brushstrokes,
it's the way her lips arrange themselves in an eternal pout.
it's not that i don't see the beauty reflected in the mirror;
the glass shows me everything i want to see.
but when i hold that mirror up to the rest of society,
i see everything i suddenly want to be.
in this gallery, all i see is the other canvases
painted with details i wish i possessed.
but just because i can't see my own masterpiece
doesn't mean that it's not on display.