Shamed in proportion, sized up, measured in comparison to the mass,
the norm, the general expectation, the picture perfect image of blonde and beautiful.
In a world where originality is cliche you shuffle your feet, a quiet wallflower,
tired of the reflection frowning back at you in the mirror.
Through the looking glass you’d see the grand golden phenomena waiting with its doors open, the limitless potential of life, exquisite with every breath.
The critics will critique, break you down peg for peg, shake their heads with their eyes downturned, yet you still wake every morning.
Your lungs still breath.
Your hands still grasp.
You’re still alive.
Live upon the foundation you’ve built your lush landscape of teenage beauty upon,
let those demons lash their tongues of flame, you’ll provide no gasoline for them to burn.
In the darkest nights you’re the candle, eternal in how you shine.