Dress Up

She plays dress-up, pretending she’s something she’s not
Maybe beautiful
She stands tall in front of the mirror but cries once she sees that, again, it’s her who stares back at her
Everyday she has to see this face; this vile, unlikable thing that others seem content on forgetting
And why wouldn’t they?
Her face is nothing worth remembering
If anything she hopes it isn’t
That they forget the moment they walk away
She wears her clothes as though they fit her, but really they cling, gasping to her humongous “curves” as though helplessly, breathlessly trying to escape
See they’d prefer not to be worn by her
They want to be catwalk, supermodels, worn by those who are remembered.
And why wouldn’t they?
Who wouldn’t want to be put upon a pedestal and shown off
As though perfect.