Toast to 36-24-36!

Fat is beautiful, thin is beautiful too. Black is beautiful, so is white. Isn't beauty subjective? Aren't we crystallizing 'arbitrary constructs' way too much? And ending up victimizing that stranger, that friend, our very own selves? The poem examines this.

Every morning when the mirror greets her

She would scorn and yell things bitter

"Thick fat of the skin

More like trash-bin

Speckled like a corpse rotten 

Duh, or a desert of fossil forgotten"

Until one day when she would hashafashasha away her noodles

Her eyes fall on a pamphlet colored in blue, beneath her plate of snickerdoodles 

The words written come sailing through the air

As if she has found kryptonite to her everyday nightmare

"Plastic surgery" it reads in bold

"Why miss on your 'perfect' 36-24-36, get rid of the ugly folds"

Satire smirks

Irony laughs

And she sneaks to the address 

To the house of illusions

To the purgatory of euthanasia 

Euthanasia of innocent hearts

That could fit beauty only in the diameters of 36-24-36

Three days in future returns she

Floating in an island of glee

Amidst the ocean of audience - 

In the real and virtual world 

That would now "woohoo!" and "ahoy!"

To her perfect body of contours and curves

Fabricated with intricacy-

"A work of art!"

Satire smirks

Irony laughs

And she cheers

And waves to them all!

This newly found stardom is beautiful indeed

As she would prance to the symphony of her own queendom feed 

One fine day

In sunny May

She undoes her heels

To keep them in the shelf kneels

When BAM! 

Her nerves jam

Blood oozes

Pain booms

Perplexed and in pain, she shouts 

And calls out. 

Thirty - eight months, her breaths, she hauls

In excruciating pain and hopeless bawls

The pockets of blood and fluids wouldn't cease to ooze out

"Dang! I would have been the happiest with my protruding snout."

The plastics couldn't be undone

So she wriggles in the lanes of Manhattan 

Then arrive the cruel blossoms of March

When her body couldn't anymore bear the brooding discharge 

"Euthanasia", she hears the whisper 

beneath their bony nose

And mumbling lips of melancholy 

Yet, she seconds the decision, to free herself from the long-standing agony

The room is cold and blue

Final words she murmurs, still ballyhoo-

"The spring has sprung

The songs have been sung

... Only if I had recognized that I was since forever beautiful and young.”