The Photo, No Longer a Replica

That jaw line isn’t you. Those cheekbones are not you.

You corrupted your own structure for validation.

Did you crumble under your own volition, or did the pressure of others strike at you, your face as a tin drum, their eyes a fleet of microscopes sliding you under their lens?

Is your skin really alabaster, or is there just plaster adorning your visage?

Are you still able to smile under the weight of injections?

Do you have any reason to smile, their cameras having left you jaded, anhedonic?

The camera loves this theory of façade, but what love have you have left for yourself?