Just a little higher, she thinks.
The cleavage is not visible enough.
She wonders how many likes she’ll get,
If she can push them a little more up.

Staring at herself on a screen,
She captures her desperation.
To look like ‘them beauty queens’,
This has become her life’s passion.

Do it for the likes, she berates herself,
And so curls her hair and lips.
She removes her blemishes by editing,
But not the scars from within.

Her wardrobe is filled to the brim,
With miniskirts and make up.
She’s developed an anxiety about
Not looking plastic enough.

But she wasn’t like this before,
A quiet but amiable belle.
Then she discovered Instagram,
And rendered her dignity to sell.

She never had many friends,
But the few liked her for her heart.
Now she gets noticed solely,
Because of the paper stuffed in that part.

Oh barbs, I’m a little worried,
You’re changed so dramatically,
In pictures you smile coy and shy.
In life, I see you cry and weep.

Because that girl got more likes,
Or your 24th boyfriend cheated on you.
I had warned you to know his intentions,
Before you deemed his love as true.

You see, the likes from virtuality,
Aren’t an accurate representation.
Of the trueness of friendship,
It’s merely a well crafted delusion.

Barbs, you’re not happy.
It hurts me so see you so.
But if you choose insta-friends over me,
In an instant, I shall go.

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