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,
But I am not an art exhibit
asking to be dissected and discussed
by men in lavish suits.
I am Venus,
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.