You present me with perfection.
You tell me all the things I want to hear.
Never an angry word or sharp jab.
Just whitened teeth and
Botox smiles.
They hide that you’re no longer breathing.
I hold you
But you are limp in my arms
Still fucking smiling
But eyes no longer staring into mine.
Synthetic beauty is deadlier than hemlock.
Who is the creator that demands
He paints your face
To cover the tear stains?
Is he still here
Or did he brand your iris
With his blurry figure?
Is that why you cannot see
That I already love the parts
You refuse to let out?
The ugliness makes this real.
Please talk to me.
What are you thinking?
Green Glasses 