She looks in the mirror with sad eyes.
So many questions dribbling in her mind,
As she touches her face with a sigh,
Imperfection is a word that runs dry,
It tastes like acid and vile,
It causes her tears streaming wild.

“Am I beautiful, or my mom lied?”

She puts on her mask, a matted makeup.
Covering the dotted white spots,
Smothering every ragged edge,
Hiding the ugliness that causes her pain,
And again and again, the mirror doesn’t lie.
Now mirror, mirror, what do you think?
Did I hide my flaws and edges?
Concealed it and masked perfectly.

“Am I beautiful, or my mom lied?”

She heard a tugging whisper.
Close your eyes, and hears your heartbeat.
The mirror reflects what you see,
But it doesn’t tell you the reality.
Spotless and flawless is not a standard of beauty.