Glimmer

they say being beautiful has its perks,

but the gleam of youth is another layer

that hides the fear of wrinkles and spots,

anathema to a girl’s porcelain skin

but the stretch marks and moles,

the brown, the dark, the off-white,

the plump, the coarse, the sag—

don’t dare speak their names

the thing about glitter, though,

is that it doesn’t discriminate

among color or size or shape;

all it needs is a canvas to use

“love yourself,” all the ads say

while pushing a one-note brand

of how to fit into a premade mold,

all the better to make money with

so when your girls and guys starve,

chasing after that perfect illusion,

don’t go crying that you didn’t mean it,

that you didn’t do anything wrong at all

scars, blemishes, marks, pores—

you don’t want these things to exist,

but they’re not curses or magic tricks

to be waved away at your leisure

when you truly believe the words,

“be who you are without shame,”

and tell it too like it’s true and real,

then maybe we’ll buy into your fad