She is curled up into one —
The spine that framed her back stuck
Like thorns of roses from their stems;
Her feet sprawled in acute angles —
Some at 45, others at a .5,
With gaping holes of everything human between toes.
Yet her hair perfectly settles on her collarbone —
The spectrum of life that dyed it a deep scarlet red,
All the imperfections intertwining around curls;
Yet her face is specially carved —
Cherry picked and thrown into a certain bunch labelled as perfection,
Features almost symmetrical, identical.
And yet, this very picture is embellished with all that looked like glamour,
By tormenting it with the mice clicks and airbrushes.
“Check out her flawless style,” they say —
She is wrapped up in gleaming plastic covers and put on shelves for display.
She is only left unsatisfied.
Hastily, she puts down that last bite.
Her body encapsulates life’s ironies, a bloody war zone, a never-ending conflict between self-torture and self-esteem, a broken mirror of a distorted self-reflection.