Maybe you would call it a tendency.
Tendencies become habits;
habits become compulsions;
compulsions become asylum stays.

When the medley of
before-the-mirror,
in-the-fitting room,
on-the-scale
breakdowns
turns too neurotic, people worry.

Really, the
handful of golden hearts
that supply the
baker’s dozen of compliments
are far worse off.

They saw me for what I am,
but took me for what I’m not.

Imagine praise for
the shale stone’s glint in my eyes,
the book cover’s curve in my bosom,
the shortening’s tone in my thighs.

It is for that and every feature left over that my preparation particulars try to account.

My extensive history
with the fumbled results of
brand-name cold cream,
knock-off Noxema,
half-price outfits,
and empty-promise solutions

goes so nicely with
My intimate memory
of the bungled acts of
scrubbing,
sprucing,
styling,
and shaving.

In their defense…
Maybe some confetti got into their eyes.
Maybe some hairspray got into their nostrils.
Maybe some lead got into their water.

Nevertheless,
approval for a letdown is never acceptable.