picture perfect

i look at my reflection, &i ask the mirror, 'what is perfect?'. if i chisel my cheekbones, shave my face hardwood smooth, dim the fluorescent lighting to a soft glow, wash the hair &scrub the skin &correct the posture; will i be perfect? what if i change my eyes, or color my hair, or taste the cardboard hollow of making myself thin the marykate way? how about i refine my body so that i can fit into that perfect size xs shirt i saw in hollister, &while i'm there, how about i get some fake self esteem to match? maybe i should take after ken, because that seems to have worked out for all the mannequins in the department stores.
OR, i could butcher, defy, challenge, &deny, &kill the lights, &avoid all reflective surfaces, &slice the idea [perfect] open; would i have then created a new definition of what perfect might [or could] be? blemished skin, yellow smiles like yield signs [to stop &stare at, of course] &diamond burns covering the skin that's tied tight around my bones to keep the wires &churning gears of my heart in place, could that be the new perfect?
i pick back up &glue &nail &tape all that i try to get rid of, because you can't change everything [even with a little help from dr. 90210].
so i remain still &listen as everyone laughs &conversates with someone they think is me, but all the while i sit &stare at my own reflection in the black surface of their eyes, &i press replay in my mind of what is [or could be] perfect.