The Softened Edge, Or, What We Practice

Another perfect jawline,

a tilt of the head,

a smile so slight,

it’s almost dead.

I scroll past, I sigh,

and then my eye

catches me, just me,

reflected, caught.

And what do I do?

It’s not even thought.

My shoulders slide back,

my chin goes down,

my lips, they try

to lose their frown.

A softer look,

less sharp, less keen,

like I’m rehearsing

for a silent scene.

Who am I doing this for?

The empty glass?

The ghost of every image

I just let pass?

This little dance,

this practiced blur,

to be less myself,

to just concur

with some old rule,

some faded text.

And the cost?

Oh, what comes next?

The tightening chest.