is the face that Eleanor Rigby
kept in a jar
by the door.
Perfect.
Poised.
Precise.
I wear no makeup
yet no soul has ever
seen my bare
face.
My smile gleams like
dollar store ceramics
posing as my grandmother's
best china saucers.
The eyes of porcelain dolls
are less perfect than my own.
(The also contain more life.)
My lips are just too red,
radiating as though
I was cast in a film by
Wes Anderson.
My hair...
My hair belies me.
The pseudo-scarlet mane
that cascades from my scalp
will never quite tame
the way I'd like -
- A small reminder that
I can never fool myself.
I am not trying to become
someone else.
A different person, perhaps.
I'm just trying to be a
better version of
me than
I am.