Vesper

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I have heard it before,

how men do not notice eyebrows,

that they do not care for plump lips

weighed down  in red lipstick.

They say that china-glazed eyes

belonging to a dumb bunny

are not worthy of being praised.

 

And if you do not walk around

with a milky face

exposing your craters,

you are labeled plastic,

augmented, unnatural.

 

But I am not an art exhibit

asking to be dissected and discussed

by men in lavish suits.

I am Venus,

a light-bringer

who glides through the suns,

outshining their golden rays

and diamond-encrusted skin.

 

When gravity begins to pull on my cheeks

and age decides to stomp on me,

pouring dark spots over my exterior—

I will not be adequately pretty.

 

And when the smoothness of my surface

erupts into ridges and cracks,

I will proudly powder them up.

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