A cart rolls into the frigid clean room,

the sheet is removed, revealing terrifying tools with innocent names.

I sit back into the chair as it crackles in disappointment.

Ink stains my face, my chest, my stomach,

graphing my every flaw.

I accept and mold to my abuse.

The gilded flashings and turnings of her hands

play out before my eyes.

She is my creator, my changer, my mother's shame.

She makes me ideal to the critical world.

I then reveal myself to all those who shunned me;

their brilliant smiles surround me,

warming me with the night possessed

with the impossible standards of perfection.

I am beautiful.

I am fake.