Line by line,
dip by dip,
piece by piece,
brush by brush,
stroke by stroke,
she slathers it on.

It envelopes her beauty in a covering embrace.
But not in a wanted, familiar hug.
In a dreaded, gripping clutch.

Hazel eyes suffocate under a canvas of mauve.
Thick, black lashes choke on soot.
Skin droops under its tan mask.
Artificial clown cheeks shake and explode apple red.

Without her drug, she says she feels naked.
If she's naked without it,
I say it's good to be naked.

We should all run free in the grass,
embracing our natural beauty,
becoming one with our nudity,
exploring being bare,
if without it, she is truly 'naked.'

Who cares if I'm exposed?
I'd rather be truly myself, in the buff.
Than like her.
Swallowed up by the shimmery, peach monster's fa'ade