There’s a portrait of a girl that I know well.
She has hundreds of followers under her spell.
She’s buffed and she’s waxed and she’s dressed up to sell.
Enough makeup and hairspray to dress up hell.
Her freckles are faded and her lips are red.
Not a trace of feeling in her perfect head.
She exists just so you can compare and contrast.
Your body to hers and surely come last.
Don’t listen, don’t look, don’t edit your eyes.
Be real, and feel, be someone who cries.
Over books, over music and never disguise
your age, your birth marks, your beautiful skin,
and if you forget, I’ll tell you again.
I see you. I love you. I’m a part of you too.
Namaste. Go in peace. Be real. Be true.