Beauty comes in many flavours,
You might think you’re sweet,
Too bad he only likes them hot.
Why wring your soul out,
Why darn your eyes new tears,
Over a patchwork quilt of aesthetics?
Irony has a mercurial mind,
Women screen out imagined flaws,
More harshly than men ever could.
This allure you think you’ve trapped,
In your gaping open-mouthed pores,
Will expire as surely as the sun will set.
And the appetite of every critic
Can never be sated by one.
Why see yourself in their broken lenses?