Every morning I paint myself,
   carefully trying to be what I want,
   smooth foundation over my plump cheeks,
   oh my I look so pale now.
Brush some rouge onto my cheekbones,
   eyeshadow right onto the crease,
   lipstick lining rosebud mouth,
   my face is a canvas,
   at least to me.
Mama says I look like a whore,
   Daddy says nothing at all,
   I sit in front of my bedroom mirror,
   tryng to decide if black or navy,
   is more slimming.
Rolls of fat spill,
   beneath my fingers,
   I attempted to vomit it away but,
   my body holds on,
   a grip like iron.
Every so often someone comes along,
   who says I am beautiful but,
   I think they are blind.
Then I am used,
   so hungry for love I do anything,
   then tossed away and critisized.
I wash away my paint at night,
   and in my dreams,
   only in my dreams,
   do I become,
   what I want to be.