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fix the imperfect?
why is it that
we scroll,
scroll,
scroll,
eyes glued onto a reflective blue light,
searching desperately for life hacks
to make
our skin clearer,
our waist slimmer,
our lips bigger,
our hips wider,
our nose smaller,
our jawline sharper?
we want to fix whatever flaw
society deems a disgrace.
but who makes up this society?
who determines the “ideal face?”
we are all computers,
programmed by this intangible and arcane figure,
coded to worry,
to pick ourselves apart,
to bruise our own hearts.
we are infected by the virus
of the yearning for perfection,
which can induce us
to crash,
to break down
into a clump of gigabytes and particles;
there is no more functionality,
only everlasting despondency.
down the rabbit hole we go,
sucked in by its pervasive strength
that destroys our self-images
and persuades us to “rectify”
our broken keys
and our cracked screens–
our irreparable imperfections.
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