It begins wit a glance-
not inward,
but toward the mirror,
the screen,
the eyes of strangers
who never really look.

You trace the outline of yourself
as if perfection is a border
you keep trying to cross.
Every flaw becomes a shadow
you chase under artificial light.

Vanity does not scream,
it whispers,
softly,
telling you you're almost enough-
just a little more polish,
a little less truth.

Your smile for approval,
not joy.
You speak
to be seen,
not heard.
And in the silence that follows,
you wonder
if there's anything left
beneath the shimmer.