i reprimand myself for documenting too much,
for stalling in the instilled process of dying a little.
take these photographs of lapsed time,
and attempt to frame the images of vacant sighs,
pursed lips, and crassy poses of maladjusted attraction.
all for the sake of a prosperous posterior, bleached, tucked, and burned?
when we look back, will we see the fine lines
of diluted frailty, misshaped and contorted into obligatory glamour-grins?
or just the smirk of arrogant, misused charm Photoshlopped on?
a last chance gimmick to sell yourself short.
cheap thrills are weighing us down,
and i reprimand myself for documenting the obvious.

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