I am dark eye circles.
I am nothing but gross, winter skin tapered onto a bored face.
I am yellowed teeth, and thanks to dad, hideous manbrows.
I am dull, shine-less hair, ridded of colors other than horrifically plain brown.
“It’s what’s inside that counts”, states the platinum blonde boasting perfectly symmetrical eyeliner.
I am fat in the wrong places, but never skinny in the right ones.
I am a mirror’s worst nightmare.
I playfully smile as more poetic thoughts cross my mind.
I am severe crow’s feet at seventeen.
Too many; smiling takes its toll.
I am horrendous bruises from volleyball, the sport I know.
I am broken, dead hair from National Honor Society, volunteering to help the community I hold dear.
I am scattered, protruding acne scars, from my stage makeup, the reminder of the applause I adore.
I am dark circles from hard work, being myself of which I love.