Click.
The TV shuts up
And I figure I can finally have some
Rest
From the airbrushed women
With the stubble-bearded men
Hanging off their waists
Like flags,
Hailing each passerby,
Scoffing
“Hey,
You’ll never be this
Gorgeous.”
They wave around their unblemished fingers,
Uncover bleached teeth from behind
Red lips,
Red like the color of the
Off button on my
TV remote.

My nails are
Stubs
Because of them.
Every
Single
Day,
I worry.
Not about that test
Or world hunger
No,
It’s about not seeing
An airbrushed face
Smirking behind that piece of glass on the wall.
I worry because I’m not
Drinking out of
Skinny champagne glasses
Or flutes
Or whatever the heck they’re called
Because,
Hey,
Who am I to know?

It’s not like they’re just reality TV stars.
No, those women are everywhere.
I sit next to them every day,
Those girls who’ve got that
Fashion thing
Down pat.
It’s like
Copy and paste
Copy and paste
A whole line of them,
Blushing
“Who, me?”
And I want to yell
“Yes, you!”
They’re practically models
And yet
They’re in denial.
Leave the self criticism to those
Who will use it
And actually worship those
Televised airbrushed fakes
And buy their
Plastic ego-boosting
Mascara-smothered
Lipstick-smearing
Foundation-choking
Acne-fighting
Lies.