Each morning my face looks at me,

Some days with sleep still in its eyes.

And, though I like the face I see,

It's time to put on my disguise.

The brown eyelashes become black;

The light pink flesh becomes more brown.

One could say that I have a knack

For keeping my real face unshown.

Why must I hide myself behind

This poreless, hairless, waxen guise?

Why must my body be aligned

To beauty in my culture's eyes?

Instead, I choose to be myself

And put my mask back on the shelf.