These implements are made up to leave me invisible,
So the real me is concealed from societies’ brutalities.
They blanket my cheek bones and line my eyelids,
Leaving nothing but traces of a counterfeit appearance.
But if they uncovered who I really am,
Who would I then become?
A figure of judgment,
Of disgrace,
Of actuality that is so scarce to our decade.
Culture can’t detriment the real me
If it’s left unexposed.
I burry behind the shame of,
products.
In hopes of discovering an improved me,
A fake but simplistic image


Of what we see in magazines.
Hopefully I can be recognized,
as anything other than a true identity.