She dips her bristle lined wand
Into the thick, coal-colored substance
That she swipes onto her lashes
Separating each one into perfection.
Next she reaches for a case
That, when used,
Lightly falls upon her cheeks
Like a powdery, pink snow.
She goes then for the item
That might burn her-
But she guesses it's worth the risk
If it results in straighter strands.
Time to get dressed!...if you could call it that.
Because all she slips on
Is a skirt that squeezes the life out of her
(But guys say it looks good)
And a shirt that cost everything she had
(But girls say it's the style).
Just as she's about to walk out the door
In shoes that blister her feet,
She realizes she's forgotten something-
Her lips.
She uncaps the tube of lasting color
And before she paints in upon her mouth
She stares at her made-up reflection.
And carefully, with red cosmetics,
On the shimmering glass,
Spells out three words:
I hate society.