Her hair,
golden strands cascading down her back.
Shampooed, straightened, sprayed.
Her smile,
framed by venomous scarlet lips.
They spit out insults
taking stabs at your soul.
Her eyes,
the color of ocean water
10,000 feet under.
Shining like summer stars,
eclipsing the fact
that underneath the
Tiffany diamonds,
double zero Hollister jeans
and three coats of eye-liner
pained on by a perfectly polished hand,
she is empty.
She has lost herself
drowning in a sea
of foundation and Mac mascara.
She scarified her identity.
To be beautiful.
To be noticed.