Zher.

All these faces,
these men and these women,
people who are everything but.

They shine and they glitter,
they glow.

His eyes,
Her nose,
Hir lips.

Perfection,
they say there's no such thing,
they fool you into believing your faults are charming,
they tell you not to worry,
"You'll be a beautiful one..." They say.
"On the inside."

You sit across of the dirty mirror that seems to be the only honest voice.
Laying before you,
scattered in an unsettling pattern are photos you took.
The one from the mall,
the one on the bench,
the one in the coffee shop.
Ignorant of the truth,
unaware of all,
they wait.
With perfection secured within the thick, dark lines of the marker,
they wait.

Noses,
hairlines,
lips,
cheekbones,
where to start,
where to start.

On zher on own face,
similar lines have been drawn,
"This was my face," zher whispers.
"No more."
And with the simple,
achingly beautiful,
silver square of perfection
each hair is razored off.
And so it begins.

"This is it."
With the words comes the overwhelming music,
the one that draws tears from zher circled eyes.
With the tip digging with dark, unforgiving permanence,
zhe sways zher head to the gentle melody,
watching the sins drip down what used to be zher face.