I Woke Up Like This: A Poem On The Fake Life Social Media Forces Us To Live

Image source: carrybeans.com

Caught in the web of a virtual world, we are too engrossed in our digital lives, nowadays. Everyday, we lie. We deceive. We cheat. Just to get more likes and to increase the number of our followers on social media. We forget about the simple joy of living and devote our entire existence to the world of Instagram, Snapchat and Facebook. I wrote a poem on this issue, which explores the behind-the-scenes life of an Instagram model and asks the question,

'Is it all worth it, after all?'

"I woke up like this"

It is three a.m in the night
And she is sitting at her vanity.
Peering into the mirror, wishng, yet again
That her eyes were bigger, her hair prettier and her waist thinner.
She is sketching an impossibly exquisite beauty in her mind's eye.
Full lips, toned hips, et all.
Somebody unreal.
Somebody exotic.
Somebody not her.
She looks at her desk clock and sighs.
Three hours till the sun peeks into her window
With it's unnecessarily cheery message of daybreak.
Three hours.

Today, she opts for a classic look.
Red lips, winged eyes, flawless skin,
Never goes wrong, a look like this.
Meticulously, she chooses her outfit.
Black, like the darkness in her.
Black high collared shirt, black skirt and a ghost gray overcoat.
Patent black Louboutins.
Perfect.

Outside, the blackbirds have woken up.
She can hear them chirping in the elm.
Oh shit!
That means it's already...four...
She has to take a bath, brush her teeth,
Get her hair and nails done.
Put on makeup.
Put on a facade.
Pretend.
She remembers a time when birds singing outside
Meant there was still time to stay in bed till
The sweet smell of pancakes knocked on the door of her bedroom.
She shakes hsr head, shrugging off the distraction.
No time for this.

The curling iron leaves her raven hair in perfect waves.
Her outfit for the day hangs on the closet door.
On her bed, lies the freshly laundered silken slip.
She puts another coat of lipstick.
And reapplies her mascara.
It's already five.
And the soft morning light tumbles into her Boudoir.
About time, now.

She slides gracefully into the plum satin slip
Looks into the mirror, one last time,
Smiles at the perfection, she is,
And stuffs last night's plain cotton shirt into her already full closet.

Her pink sheets are in a neatly designed mess.
And the sunlight already falls, almost, gracefully, now, on her queen sized bed.
Where she lies,
Carefully careless curls spread like a halo,
Over her silk pillow,
Subtly rimmed eyes, slightly crinkled,
Shying from the light.
That gives her glowing face
An other worldly glaze.
It's just six.
She holds her phone camera,
Smiles for those three million, fifty thousand, five hundred and ninety two followers.
And says, without a hint of a lie,
"I woke up like this."