Work starts at nine.
Not enough light to blend this illusion,
Not enough time.
I blend just enough to be effortless,
But not so much that I’m revealed.
My pale skin hiding beneath the layers,
Waiting to be accepted, not to be concealed.
I live as these other people,
Laminated, polished and frozen.
But somehow something tells me,
They’re really all broken.
They asked me at school what I would like to be,
Now I just want to be a celebrity.
The mask I won’t do without, it is my shield.
You’ll never get close enough for it to be healed.
Someone else’s hair has become glued to mine.
Stripped of all meaning, bleached of all desire.
Glowing layers of paint sprayed onto my skin,
Adhesive nails are already wearing thin.
I work for the weekend, gyrate like on T.V,
Like magazines my legs are smooth and glossy.
Makeup, hair and nails my weekly salary,
Of someone famous I must become married.
Swarms of people drawn to this culture,
From possessing no hobbies they become vultures.
I see them lured, captivated, and pacified,
But something vacant still lingers in their eyes.
I’m a paper-mache princess,
A real life doll.
Disposable, I’ll break,
Replaced with a remake.