I never liked the sound of my own words
They like to whisper over my lips, metallic, they
Leave the taste of plastic and pristine regrets in my mouth.I
Spend hours calculating how I can improve the way I appear to the world,
Pretending
That I am more than my body, that
My mind is sufficient enough.

Why must we make ourselves our own divinity?

Our existence is an act of deception,
We distort ourselves to conform
And characterize our depletion as strength.

We sit still while they inspect us,
Criticize our hair for being too dull, while our minds are too bright.
‘Priorities’, they whisper.It is not a suggestion.
Am I enough now?
Even if I became complicit with the lies emanating from the loudspeakers,
Would I ever quite be enough?