Contours Beyond the Mold

1:00 AM. A thumb mindlessly tracing the glass screen. "The Golden Ratio of Being Loved." "How to Glow Up and Look Five Years Younger." With every view count rolling by, someone dictates the correct way to build a face. Turning the brass faucet, cold tap water begins its quiet, steady sound. Bathed in the pale, blue elevator glow A stroke of crimson to shorten the philtrum line Shadows blended sharp to shave the jaw Pasting on a sterile, polished grace Just like the voice from that self-help seminar Preaching that "first impressions seal your fate" Behind this neatly constructed silhouette I spent the whole day nodding along in place Screenshots resting inside a saved folder Symmetrical eyelids, arms whittled lean and thin "Beauty is proof of disciplined effort," The endless timeline silently ranks my worth Yet between the lines of the reports I drafted with care, Or the tender hand I lent to someone’s quiet grief— Inside this rigid, square-cornered frame, Do those virtues fail to measure even a single millimeter? Cleansing balm melting under the warmth of my palms Dissolving someone else's "correct answer" at my fingertips Scooping warm water into a cloudy, milky swirl Swallowed by the drain—my daily armor coming undone Shedding the standardized face I craved so hard to wear Watching their yardsticks wash away into the dark Lifting my wet face in the dim bathroom light Hooded lids resting at slightly uneven heights Thin cheeks that flush pink the moment exhaustion sets in These mismatched, out-of-season curves and hollows Are the genuine skin that has carried my life till now When did we start sorting ourselves like items stamped with serial numbers? Warm-toned, cool-toned, skeletal frame tags— Nothing more than price tags offered up for others to appraise The quiet weight of years lived with integrity Must never be painted over by a hollow word like "glow-up" ……Doesn't true beauty belong in that secret place that slips through everyone’s checklist and scores? Burying my face deep into a thick cotton towel Letting it drink the droplets in soft, gentle silence A splash of cold toner Soaking straight into dry, honest skin Not assembled as spare parts for someone else to inspect— This breath and beating heart were born simply to live tomorrow Clicking off the bathroom switch with a soft snap. A chill autumn night wind slips quietly through the open window into the dark. I am done searching for the correct answers inside a screen. I will take these uneven contours of mine, and walk on—carrying my kindness with both hands.