a lament for all my pretty ones

When she was young
they handed her a plastic skillet
in which to cook plastic dreams
of a happy home, happy kids,
and most of all,
a happy husband.
And they gave her a Barbie doll
and said
the perfect hair,
the soft curves,
the slinky short dresses
paved the way to a Prince Charming’s heart.
They let her wear
her mother’s shoes
her mother’s handbag
her mother’s false diamonds
and when she got a bit older,
say, sixteen,
she plucked her brows and shaved her legs,
painted the lids of her eyes and glossed her lips—
and then let her mascara run
because he would not look at her.
She ran away wobbling on towering heels,
finally losing a shoe, like that girl in the fairy tale.
But she knows no prince would come for her
or listen to her jokes
or watch her dance
because she was FAT and UGLY,
with too big a nose and too small breasts;
plus the best friend that sat next to her
was just so much prettier.
She sobbed away her stash
of compliments and accomplishments
(each piece carefully hoarded),
the hours spent dressing up and talking to herself in the mirror
as if all the wit, the charm, the sweet smiles
were rendered worthless for the lack of one gaze.
 
inspired by, of all things, the PBB ball. wtf right.XD

 

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