Tell me, Insta-woman.
What's under that perfectly scripted face?
Does a manicured shell obscure
a thousand selves within?
Versions of you packed, one inside the other
Like Russian dolls.
Go get your Insta face made up for just the right occasion.
We crave a formulaic shape that fits neatly in the world.
What is the vibe of your feed?
Good girl, bad girl, bitch, Madonna.
Whacko, whinger, cool girl, nerd.
Each a face of crafted singularity.
Earning its place on a curated grid.
Have you noticed - we are by nature
comfortable with categorisation, with polarisation?
Black or White, bad or good, fat or thin.
Like someone forgot we are all
a little bit of each.
Complexity ain't Insta-worthy.
Fuck the grid.
I jumbled up my Russian dolls a long time ago.
Stuck big heads on tiny bodies.
Such effort to resist aligning the pieces.
But how can I ignore who I am?
I am mismatched, Uncategorisable. An emotional kaleidoscope.
I will not be stacked in order.
Like flags staked on conquered turf, my mismatched dolls are representative of the complexity that is me.
My life's for living, not curating.
Though if you make me choose a face -
I'd pick a sad one.
I weep to occupy a world
That only wants to see one face.