Perfection has no Sound

You are carved from wax,
youth preserved in a gilded shell,
voice torn from your throat.
Your face is a sculpted fantasy,
glamour painted into your eyes,
rage pinned to the roof of your mouth,
trapped behind shellacked lips.
Your image is puzzled together,
hand stitched bits of plastic
that stick to your ribs and
keep you motionless under hot lights.
You are re-created under the
precision of a steel blade,
your undesirable bits left like
scraps in a hazardous waste bucket.
You trade in your identity and buy
yourself expertly crafted slices of beauty,
searching for a place in the spotlight,
but you begin to melt and realize
perfection has no sound.