The Cost of Being Seen

Caught in the gaze of my reflection,

I question the mirror’s intentions—

a half-empty lipstick tube,

the color faded and worn,

tells tales of application and removal,

a cycle of effort that masks the truth.

Listening to a friend speak

about her struggles to define femininity,

we peel back the layers like old wallpaper,

revealing what lies beneath—

a rawness exposed,

a price paid for every role,

like costumes stacked in a forgotten corner.

What does it cost to be seen?

to wear the weight of expectation,

a delicate dance on a razor’s edge,

where beauty bends but never breaks,

a fragile façade that flickers and fades.