I am flawless.
My skin radiates the most perfect shade of saccharine pink and my
bright blond coif of bouncing, spiraling curls
frames the womanly contours of my face.
I am iconic. And
you are hypnotized
by my 25 pairs of sparkling, turquoise eyes.
Red lips brazenly curled, I
boast my megawatt Hollywood smile.
I am loved; I am hated.
The likeness you see,
You don’t know, and never will:
A face plastered by a plastic mask,
glowing garishly in the lonely darkness.
What you see is
generated by the Hollywood myth machine.
Iam the myth,
reduced, condensed, and compacted for