I knew a girl who picked out her flaws the way her grandmother used to examine each line on a china plate and in that she saw herself as something to be sold.

Skin decorated with price tags she embellished herself with; I asked her why she labels herself and she told me that she wanted to be worth something.

Maybe this is why each day she becomes dusted and cracked by the confinement of not being wanted like a tawdry radio sitting on the shelf of your local Best Buy.

I haven’t seen her glimmer in a while.

Her sister seduces her blades and role plays on her wrist; she hasn’t had affection but she wanted to be touched by something other than her father’s words.

Gaining weight to make a bigger canvas; I asked her why she plays tic-tac-toe on her skin and she told me that the most beautiful women have the most scars.

Maybe this is why each day someone calls her beautiful because her tears form puddles they’re able to water their flowers with.

I haven’t seen her smile in a while.

Her brother took his sister’s blades and cut the seams of his own self-worth; he took his sister’s price tags and put them on everything but himself.

I asked him why he isn’t concerned with the way he’s priced and he told me that he was raised this way.

Maybe this is why women crumble in the hands of those willing to admire their contours.

I haven’t seen them admire themselves in a while.


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