I wake up and clean up

All by myself.

My clothing choices blend together like fog.

There are those clothes I pick out as an individual,

But I only almost wear them.

Then, there are the clothes the world picks for me.

The magazine assures “perfect everyday wear”

And I cover up less, as they say.

For make up I almost leave my face blank.

The magazine glares and speaks

“You + (mascara + lip gloss) Fab-u-lus!”

At least spell it correctly.

I almost leave my hair in its drab fashion,

But it ruins the image I’ve copy-pasted.

I twist, tease and volumize.

The magazine nudges hairspray into the picture.

Next, I pick up a sack and a mask that lie on my dresser.

I almost choose the sack to show I don’t care about them.

The magazine persuades, “The mask is the new accessory.”

I’ll look just like them with it.

My last chance of revealing and rebelling closes.

I’m choosing the mask.

Like Halloween or a Masquerade Ball, I blend.

I’m acting and being the same which is different for me.

It’s a living horror show.

With the sack, I could’ve been real.

Now, I act my part like a musical doll.