Airbrushed (poem)

18

Poem by guest writer Amatullah.

Airbrushed

Amatullah

There she stands in front of the mirror,
her worst enemy because it shows her true reflection,
she tells herself she’s beautiful,
but she only sees imperfection,

Airbrushed,
and,
hair brushed,
intoxicated with perfection,

they call it high fashion,
but I call it oppression.

She picks the brick house shade to put on her lips,
a little bit of glam, and those jeans that hug her hips,

with those red stilettos, she wants to work it out,
like Beyonce when she steps out,

she applies the lightening cream,
that dark skin, she needs to conceal,

Airbrushed,
and,
hair brushed,
intoxicated with perfection,

they call it high fashion,
but I call it oppression.

Maybe she’s born with it,
that’s what she wants you to think,
as she struts past the men,
she’s fooled them again.

She passes by her enemy, who is now her supporter,
takes a quick look, and it doesn’t disappoint her,

a slave to the pretty, a slave to her beauty,
never pleased with anything,
so reaching perfection is her duty,

her deen is about the looks and vogue is her qur’an,
her tawaf is at sephora, and her ramadan in milan,

Airbrushed,
and,
hair brushed,
intoxicated with perfection,

They call it high fashion,
but I call it oppression.

We pass by each other on the street,
she looks to me,
and,
me to her,
but she doesn’t fool me,
behind the fake facade.

She thinks she is free,
but her shackles are apparent to me,
we’re both slaves, but the difference,
you see,

is that my worship is real, and hers is imitation,
my servitude is my freedom, my Deen is my motivation,
but her servitude is artificial, a knock off salvation,

if you’re not a slave of Allah,
you’ll be a slave of some other,
so I submit to the Creator,
I don’t answer to another,

Airbrushed,
and,
hair brushed,
intoxicated with perfection,

They call it high fashion,
but I call it oppression.

_______________

Amatullah is a writer and wannabe poet, who shares the khayr at  www.tayyibaat.com and www.muslimmatters.org.