Factory of the Elite

Fatal lip gloss girls pucker
self-conscious memories
in a deep twisted taste
of twinkling blush.
Sinking that tooth in my bottom lip,
fighting those tears of
exhausting expectations
harbored for mere mortals
like myself,
in the hollow trench
sloshes astringent acceptance
of standards inhumanely high
-too high indeed-
even unattainable,
for the awkward and ill at ease,
those unable to allow
a deserving drop
of off-handed affection
to descend like oil in water –
not for one second
to surrender haughtiness
and prove human –
well, maybe for one second.
Glittered glaze pats gathered lips,
smudged for that one split second,
smearing beneath truth –
and the realization
not even you
can live up to you.
Momentarily grasp
that imperfection and gaucheness
you will never suffer
and breathe your heavy sigh of relief
as you turn away in satisfaction,
convinced the elite gaze sliding
down my nose
is more aloof ignorance
and less confused gloss
spread so slight.
How can we, of all people, be fooled?